To adopt the opening words of a more famous tale, "The truth of this
strange matter is what the world has long been looking for." The
events which I propose to chronicle were known to perhaps a hundred
people in London whose fate brings them into contact with politics.
The consequences were apparent to all the world, and for one hectic
fortnight tinged the soberest newspapers with saffron, drove more than
one worthy election agent to an asylum, and sent whole batches of
legislators to Continental cures. "But no reasonable explanation of
the mystery has been forthcoming until now, when a series of chances
gave the key into my hands."
Lady Caerlaverock is my aunt, and I was present at the two remarkable
dinner-parties which form the main events in this tale. I was also
taken into her confidence during the terrible fortnight which
intervened between them. Like everybody else, I was hopelessly in the
dark, and could only accept what happened as a divine interposition.
My first clue came when James, the Caerlaverocks' second footman,
entered my service as valet, and being a cheerful youth chose to gossip
while he shaved me. I checked him, but he babbled on, and I could not
choose but learn something about the disposition of the Caerlaverock
household below stairs. I learned--what I knew before--that his
lordship had an inordinate love for curries, a taste acquired during
some troubled years as Indian Viceroy. I had often eaten that
admirable dish at his table, and had heard him boast of the skill of
the Indian cook who prepared it. James, it appeared, did not hold with
the Orient in the kitchen. He described the said Indian gentleman as a
"nigger," and expressed profound distrust of his ways. He referred
darkly to the events of the year before, which in some distorted way
had reached the servants' ears. "We always thought as 'ow it was them
niggers as done it," he declared; and when I questioned him on his use
of the plural, admitted that at the time in question "there 'ad been
more nor one nigger 'anging about the kitchen."
Pondering on these sayings, I asked myself if it were not possible that
the behaviour of certain eminent statesmen was due to some strange
devilry of the East, and I made a vow to abstain in future from the
Caerlaverock curries. But last month my brother returned from India,
and I got the whole truth. He was staying with me in Scotland, and in
the smoking-room the talk turned on occultism in the East. I declared
myself a sceptic, and George was stirred. He asked me rudely what I
knew about it, and proceeded to make a startling confession of faith.
He was cross-examined by the others, and retorted with some of his
experiences. Finding an incredulous audience, his tales became more
defiant, until he capped them all with one monstrous yarn. He
maintained that in a Hindu family of his acquaintance there had been
transmitted the secret of a drug, capable of altering a man's whole
temperament until the antidote was administered. It would turn a
coward into a bravo, a miser into a spendthrift, a rake into a fakir.
Then, having delivered his manifesto he got up abruptly and went to bed.
I followed him to his room, for something in the story had revived a
memory. By dint of much persuasion I dragged from the somnolent George
various details. The family in question were Beharis, large
landholders dwelling near the Nepal border. He had known old Ram Singh
for years, and had seen him twice since his return from England. He
got the story from him under no promise of secrecy, for the family drug
was as well known in the neighbourhood as the nine incarnations of
Krishna. He had no doubt about the truth of it, for he had positive
proof. "And others besides me," said George. "Do you remember when
Vennard had a lucid interval a couple of years ago and talked sense for
once? That was old Ram Singh's doing, for he told me about it."
Three years ago it seems the Government of India saw fit to appoint a
commission to inquire into land tenure on the Nepal border. Some of
the feudal Rajahs had been "birsing yont," like the Breadalbanes, and
the smaller zemindars were gravely disquieted. The result of the
commission was that Ram Singh had his boundaries rectified, and lost a
mile or two of country which his hard-fisted fathers had won.
I know nothing of the rights of the matter, but there can be no doubt
about Ram Singh's dissatisfaction. He appealed to the law courts, but
failed to upset the commission's finding, and the Privy Council upheld
the Indian judgment. Thereupon in a flowery and eloquent document he
laid his case before the Viceroy, and was told that the matter was
closed. Now Ram Singh came of a fighting stock, so he straightway took
ship to England to petition the Crown. He petitioned Parliament, but
his petition went into the bag behind the Speaker's chair, from which
there is no return. He petitioned the King, but was courteously
informed that he must approach the Department concerned. He tried the
Secretary of State for India, and had an interview with Abinger
Vennard, who was very rude to him, and succeeded in mortally insulting
the feudal aristocrat. He appealed to the Prime Minister, and was
warned off by a harassed private secretary. The handful of members of
Parliament who make Indian grievances their stock-in-trade fought shy
of him, for indeed Ram Singh's case had no sort of platform appeal in
it, and his arguments were flagrantly undemocratic. But they sent him
to Lord Caerlaverock, for the ex-viceroy loved to be treated as a kind
of consul-general for India. But this Protector of the Poor proved a
broken reed. He told Ram Singh flatly that he was a belated feudalist,
which was true; and implied that he was a land-grabber, which was not
true, Ram Singh having only enjoyed the fruits of his fore-bears'
enterprise. Deeply incensed, the appellant shook the dust of
Caerlaverock House from his feet, and sat down to plan a revenge upon
the Government which had wronged him. And in his wrath he thought of
the heirloom of his house, the drug which could change men's souls.
It happened that Lord Caerlaverock cook's came from the same
neighbourhood as Ram Singh. This cook, Lal Muhammad by name, was one
of a large poor family, hangers-on of Ram Singh's house. The aggrieved
landowner summoned him, and demanded as of right his humble services.
Lal Muhammad, who found his berth to his liking, hesitated, quibbled,
but was finally overborne. He suggested a fee for his services, but
hastily withdrew when Ram Singh sketched a few of the steps he proposed
to take on his return by way of punishing Lal Muhammad's insolence on
Lal Muhammad's household. Then he got to business. There was a great
dinner next week--so he had learned from Jephson, the butler--and more
than one member of the Government would honour Caerlaverock House by
his presence. With deference he suggested this as a fitting occasion
for the experiment, and Ram Singh was pleased to assent.
I can picture these two holding their meetings in the South Kensington
lodgings where Ram Singh dwelt. We know from James, the second
footman, that they met also at Caerlaverock House, no doubt that Ram
Singh might make certain that his orders were duly obeyed. I can see
the little packet of clear grains--I picture them like small granulated
sugar--added to the condiments, and soon dissolved out of sight. The
deed was done; the cook returned to Bloomsbury and Ram Singh to
Gloucester Road, to await with the patient certainty of the East the
consummation of a great vengeance.