VI

‘Mother, are we going to try Beauty in the cart this evening?’ Dark Invader had been re-christened Beauty. ‘Tonight?’

‘Don’t be simple, child. He’s a racehorse,’ and, ‘I think perhaps a famous racehorse,’ Mother Morag might have added. ‘If we put him in the shafts, he would kick the cart to pieces.’

‘Then… ’ Elation went out of Sister Mary Fanny, ‘then he’s no use to us.’

‘We’ll see.’ Mother Morag would not say any more, but smiled her most enigmatic smile, a happy one, but as if she were secretly amused.

Sister Ignatius said much the same as Sister Mary Fanny but in her acid way. ‘One mustn’t criticise the Almighty, I know, but while He was about it, He might have sent us a suitable horse.’

‘Perhaps He means us to use our wits.’

‘But, meanwhile, what are we going to do with it?’ asked Sister Ignatius.

‘If possible, nothing at all for twenty-four hours,’ said Mother Morag. ‘That will heighten the tension.’

Certain measures, though, had to be taken. A track was marked out at the edge of the vegetable garden and three times a day Beauty was to walk ‘round and round it at least twenty times. If Gulab is too afraid I will attend to that myself, or Sister Joanna can,’ said Mother Morag. ‘She used to hunt.’ Gulab was overcome with pride at the monster now in his charge, but equally terrified. ‘I shall have to help groom,’ Mother Morag had a sparkle in her eyes; Gulab was too old to use the ‘hart molesh’ and, later that morning, the Community was edified to see their Superior working with him, brushing the brown coat, combing out the mane and tail with her fingers, sponging eyes and nose clean, and picking out the big feet while Gulab held them up. She even, and skilfully, bandaged the tail, ‘with our widest crêpe bandage,’ mourned Sister Anne, the infirmarian. Three times that day, in her black cloak, Mother Morag led the great horse round and round the vegetable garden, talking to him. ‘What do you talk about?’ asked the Sisters.

‘I say my prayers or the psalms. Beauty seemed to like it.’ Walking suited his laziness, just as the piece of bread and salt given as a prize for good conduct at the end suited his greed.

There were, though, other problems not as easily solved. ‘He must be properly rugged tonight,’ said Mother Morag. ‘Solomon’s blankets are not thick enough. Nor are ours.’ They pondered until, ‘I know,’ said Mother Morag. ‘The quilt off the Bishop’s bed.’

The bed was not really the Bishop’s – a bishop had only stayed with the Sisters once – but there was one room kept ready for visitors, ‘who are not accustomed to our ways.’ It was seldom used. ‘But Mother,’ Sister Ignatius protested. ‘That quilt came to us from Belgium. It’s handmade patchwork.’

‘It’s warm. If that horse gets a chill… ’ and, for the rest of the day, Sister Ignatius went about, murmuring, ‘The Bishop’s quilt! The Bishop’s quilt!’

Another problem was food. ‘If I issue three or four times what we gave poor Solomon… ’ Sister Emmanuel, who was the cellarer, said.

‘The horse will die of indigestion.’ The ‘worry’ line wiped out Mother Morag’s smile.

‘We haven’t the money for corn or oats or whatever they have.’

‘No, we can’t buy them,’ said Mother Morag. ‘But we could “collect” them.’ The worry line was gone as, ‘Bunny,’ said Mother Morag.

 

‘A miracle!’ Bunny was ecstatic. Mother Morag confessed to Sister Ignatius that she had ‘dressed’ the story up a little for him and, like Sister Mary Fanny, he was quite sure it was a miracle. ‘And you are asking me to take part – to take part in a miracle! Thank you, Mother Morag. Thank you.’

‘You haven’t heard what we want you to do yet.’

‘Anything. Anything.’

‘To begin with, we want to “collect” from you.’

‘But,’ Bunny was dashed. ‘I haven’t any money.’

As he was not yet twenty-one, and as impetuous as he was extravagant, Bunny was under the strict control of a Resident appointed by the Government, ‘my Grey Eminence’, as Bunny called him as irreverently as he called the British Government P.P. for Paramount Power. ‘You know how tight they keep me.’ Only let you live in two palaces, go to London and the Riviera and play polo in India and England with a string of magnificent ponies, thought Mother Morag. ‘I could lend you an elephant, but that wouldn’t help.’ Mother Morag thought of the elephant lumbering with the Sisters and the canisters from restaurant to restaurant and laughed. ‘I know I am ridiculous,’ said Bunny. Then his face brightened. ‘Jewels! I have some of my own from my Mother. They don’t belong to the State. I could give you those.’

‘Dear Bunny – but nothing like that. Not jewels. Horse food.’

‘Horse food?’

‘Yes, the very best, Your Highness.’ Now and again, Mother Morag reminded Bunny of his title. ‘We don’t want this horse to suffer in any way. Solomon did very well on what Sister Emmanuel buys.’

‘What is that?’

‘Mixed Horse Food, Grade Three: barley – sometimes there are weevils, split peas and lentils and rice-straw sweepings… ’

‘Ari bap!’ said Bunny, ‘and he lived?’

‘Solomon did but… ’ Mother Morag leaned across her desk – she was seeing Bunny in her office. ‘We need what you give your polo ponies and double that amount.’

‘I’ll send you a lorry.’

‘No, no, Your Highness. Please no. Could you bring perhaps two sacks in the boot of your car?’

‘I see.’ Bunny’s eyes sparkled as Mother Morag’s had done. ‘I am sworn to secrecy.’

‘Yes.’ The more sensational I am, the better, thought Mother Morag.

‘I will do it now.’

‘And, for the moment, Your Highness will be discreet?’

Bunny’s pride in all its Rajput royalty was offended. ‘My ancestors would cut out the tongues of anyone they thought might betray them. You have no need to do that to me.’

‘Bunny, I wouldn’t think of cutting out your tongue.’ Mother Morag, who had risen, laid an affectionate hand on his shoulder. ‘Just – thank you and bless you.’

Bunny brought the sacks. Dil Bahadur opened the gates to let him in and quickly closed them again. Mother Morag was in the courtyard to see them stored and then Bunny saw Dark Invader. ‘By God!’ he said, then blushed. ‘I beg your pardon, Mother, but I can’t wait to see Leventine’s face.’

‘Leventine?’

‘He’s the owner, Mr Casimir Alaric Bruce Leventine, and I think John Quillan will murder you for this. What fun!’

‘I’m afraid he’ll want to – but… one thing more,’ Mother Morag was serious. ‘Your Highness knows the people think our Convent is a place of sanctuary.’

‘Indeed yes,’ said Bunny. ‘It is a holy place.’

‘We try never to send anyone in distress away. This horse was terribly distressed. He was lathered. He had been beaten. Would you take a look at this.’

Dark Invader looked anything but distressed but the weal from Streaky Bacon’s whip still showed; as Bunny bent down to look further, the disingenuousness left him and he spoke as a horseman. ‘That’s a vicious cut. There’s blood on the sheath. You must call Captain Mack.’

‘I’m afraid so.’ The regret in Mother Morag’s tone made Bunny look up at her. ‘I think you want me to do something. What do you want me to do?’

‘As we can’t keep it secret any longer, spread the news. How Beauty, as we call him, was lathered and beaten. How he took sanctuary here. You know how the people follow you.’

That was true. Bunny had only to appear on the polo ground and the crowd hailed him. At the end of the game they pressed round to try and kiss his boots, his gloves, his polo stick, even his pony.

‘I shall indeed spread it,’ said Bunny. ‘Far and wide.’

 

Captain Mack usually drove in through the Convent gates to the courtyard, but now, to his surprise, they were closed and Dil Bahadur, who was watching for him, took him round to the front door which Captain Mack did not remember having used before. A Sister opened it and asked him to come upstairs, ‘to the Reverend Mother’s office,’ where he found Mother Morag.

‘This is unusually formal,’ he said.

‘It’s an unusual occasion. Captain Mack, will you look out of the window and tell me if you see what I think I see?’

Captain Mack obediently looked and, ‘Holy mackerel!’ he said.

Below him, loose in the yard, an unmistakable big brown horse was holding court – no other word for it. Sister Barbara and two other nuns were standing in a semi-circle and he moved gravely to each in turn, nuzzling hopefully, while they gave him bread and salt filched from the refectory. Gulab, who was beginning to overcome his awe, was wisping his flanks with a handful of straw – the Captain winced at the sight; tickling him like that was the surest way to get one of the nuns bitten – but the Invader paid no attention to what was happening to his short ribs. He was far too busy making friends and eating all that came his way. ‘Greedy old devil, always was,’ said Captain Mack. ‘Even ate his bedding.’

‘I hope he doesn’t eat Solomon’s, but Captain, that is Dark Invader, isn’t it?’

The rich brown coat with the dark dapple, the obvious size and strength, the loose, almost lop, ears and the placid incurably friendly disposition seemed to give only one answer. ‘It certainly is, but who on earth brought him here?’

‘No-one on earth – that’s what my Sisters think. You see, we had no means of replacing Solomon, but we prayed.’ Mother Morag raised her expressive hands. ‘In fact, we were in Chapel when we heard the sound of his hooves.’

‘Extraordinary!’

‘Not at all. It often happens to us.’

‘You mean the horse came of its own accord?’

‘Seemingly so. He was alone, but saddled and bridled. He must have thrown his rider. I sent Dil Bahadur to look but there was no-one. My Sisters think the horse was looking… ’

‘Looking?’

‘For sanctuary,’ and she said what she had said to Bunny, but more quietly. ‘Captain Mack, he was lathered, distressed – and marked.’

‘Couldn’t have been.’ The Captain did not mean to be rude, but, ‘He was one of John Quillan’s.’

‘Would you come and look. I had hoped to wait twenty-four hours, but Bunny said… ’

‘Bunny! Is he involved in this?’

‘Indeed yes, thank heaven.’

Feeling utterly bemused, Captain Mack followed Mother Morag down to the stable. ‘What do you say to that?’ she asked when he had examined the cut.

Captain Mack looked up, his eyes dark with anger. ‘Someone must indeed have lost his temper and that wouldn’t have been Ted Mullins, Darkie’s jockey, nor any of the Quillan riding boys. Mysteriouser and mysteriouser,’ said Captain Mack.

He sent Dil Bahadur for his bag, gently cleaned the wound and handed Gulab a bottle of lotion. ‘Should be all right, but he must have exercise.’

‘He does. I and Sister Joanna do it ourselves.’ Mother Morag showed him the vegetable garden track and Captain Mack’s lips twitched as he thought of the nuns in their habits walking the great horse round and round. They twitched still more when he saw Gulab rugging the Invader up with the Bishop’s quilt under Solomon’s old green blanket. Solomon’s surcingle would not go round the Invader, so the nuns had had to lengthen it with some more of their precious crêpe bandages. ‘Really you deserve to succeed,’ said Captain Mack.

‘Then you think it’s all right?’

‘I wouldn’t interfere with you for the world,’ said Captain Mack, ‘but, all the same… ’

‘All the same?’

‘You know what Dark Invader is?’

‘I know.’

‘Favourite for the Viceroy’s Cup.’

‘Which is fortunate for us.’

‘Backed to win lakhs of rupees.’

Mother Morag’s face, for a moment, seemed visionary. ‘Of which a few might come to us, rupees, not lakhs, I mean.’

‘Mother Morag. Wake up.’ The Captain had to say it. ‘Reverend Mother, as Veterinary Surgeon to the Turf Club, I am bound to tell the horse’s owner where he is.’

‘Exactly what I want you to do,’ said Mother Morag.

 

Outside Captain Mack found Dil Bahadur. The little Gurkha was overflowing with gratification and pride. ‘You have seen our horse?’ He and Captain Mack spoke in Nepali.

‘Yes – how did he come here?’ Captain Mack was stern. ‘Straight now.’

‘God sent him.’

‘Why?’

‘Because we prayed.’ Dil Bahadur was astounded anyone could doubt it. ‘The Sister Sahibs. The Father. Gulab went to the temple. I to my Pujari and did a big puja for five rupees and when I got back the horse was here.’

‘Holy mackerel!’ said the Captain again. ‘Four aces and the joker!’

The Captain’s servant cranked the old Ford and the Captain took the wheel. There was a loud report and the car shot backwards as the Ford Model T was prone to do. ‘Hold up!’ roared Captain Mack as to a stumbling horse, stamping on the pedals. He drove down the road and, as he went, suddenly began to laugh.

 

In the late afternoon Mr Leventine, John Quillan and Ram Sen were in the office again after a fruitless search and, ‘Who knows about this?’ asked Mr Leventine.

‘The whole stable, of course.’

‘I mean the people who matter.’

‘In a case like this everyone matters more than you think,’ John wanted to say but refrained. It was no use adding to the misery, and aloud he said, ‘You mean this evening’s parade? I shall say we have sent Darkie to Barrackpore with – Ted.’ John could hardly bring himself to say the name. ‘Because of the crowds.’

‘Good. What about Bacon?’

‘Streaky’s the last person to talk about a fall – but the others? It’s a matter of time and, anyway, when we have found Darkie, will he be fit to run?’

‘A rumour that he won’t would mean a better price, then everyone will be suspicious. I cannot, I will not, countenance anything like that.’

‘It may be you’ll have to.’ Again John did not say it and, He’s thinking of his precious stewardship, thought John, of shaking hands with the Viceroy… but Mr Leventine pounded his fist on the desk. ‘Let us get this clear. Until the facts are known, there must be no leakage to the Press or to anyone else. You hear me?’ He hectored the babu.

‘I think you are not speaking to me, sir,’ said Ram Sen with dignity and, ‘Then explain to me,’ said John, ‘how you can start to find a horse when you are forbidden to say that you have lost it?’

‘Not it – my horse.’ Tempers were getting frayed and, ‘It’s a plot,’ cried Mr Leventine again. ‘Someone is jealous. One of you must have been bought.’ He was, mercifully, interrupted by the arrival of a car, the unmistakable bang and rattle of an old Ford T, and the sound of the bandar-log running to meet it, but Captain Mack, with his accustomed expertise, had got rid of them – probably he had a litter of puppies or rabbits in his car – because he appeared alone in the doorway. ‘Good afternoon – or should I say evening.’ He looked down at them all. ‘Och, man!’ he said to Mr Leventine. ‘You do look depressed. Is it possible you have lost a little something?’

Mr Leventine sat upright in his chair. John lifted his head.

‘A valuable little something?’

‘Sandy, don’t tease.’

‘I’m not teasing.’

‘You have found him?’ Mr Leventine jumped up.

‘Not found. I was called in to him.’

‘Then he is injured?’

‘Had a cut with a whip, but he’s quite all right – in fact, in clover.’

‘Clover? Where is Clover?’

‘Captain Mack means he is being well looked after. Stop clowning, Sandy,’ John said irritably. ‘Where is he?’

‘In the Convent of the Sisters of Poverty just down the road.’

‘The Convent!’ They both stared incredulously at Captain Mack. Then, ‘In God’s name, how did he get there?’ asked John.

‘In God’s name, precisely. That’s what the Sisters believe,’ but Mr Leventine was at the door.

‘I will go and fetch him immediately. Johnny, call Sadiq and Ali,’ but, ‘Wait a minute,’ said Captain Mack.

‘For what?’

‘By a strange coincidence,’ said Captain Mack, ‘last night the Sisters lost their only means of transport. The horse that pulled their cart.’

‘What has that to do with this?’

‘It would seem everything. If you knew your psalms, Mr Leventine,’ the Captain was enjoying himself, ‘you would remember an inconvenient little set of verses,’ and he quoted: ‘“Every beast is mine, the cattle upon a thousand hills. I know all the fowls of the mountain. The wild beasts of the field are mine. For the world is mine and the fulness thereof”: which, of course, includes Dark Invader. Those verses are favourites of mine,’ said Captain Mack. ‘When I get sickened by the cruelty and indifference, I find them reassuring.’

Mr Leventine did not. ‘Poppycock,’ he said, a word he had learnt from Sir Humphrey.

‘The nuns don’t think it poppycock. They believe it.’ Captain Mack quoted again: ‘“Every beast is mine, and He, God, disposes.” I, unfortunately, had to put the Sisters’ horse down. They had been praying for another and – hey presto!’

‘That’s enough of this!’

‘Wait, Mr Leventine,’ said Captain Mack. ‘It’s not only that. The Sisters believe Dark Invader took sanctuary with them.’

‘Sanctuary?’

‘Yes – a refuge. A holy place where a fugitive, a runaway is safe from being taken away. Of course, that can be arranged,’ said Captain Mack, ‘but there must be conditions.’

‘I’ll give them conditions! John, order the men.’

‘Look, Cas.’ For once John used the detested nickname. ‘This may be a ticklish situation. The Sisters have great influence. I know Mother Morag, their Superior. Let me go.’

‘It’s my horse. Do as you’re told.’

The chauffeur cranked the car, the engine fired, the snake horn blared; children, hens, dogs scattered as the Minerva set off.

Never had the Convent front door bell been pulled as hard. It was followed too by a fusillade of knocks, but the portress, in her clean white apron, seemed unflustered. ‘Yes, sir?’ she asked.

‘I want to see the… ’ Mr Leventine suddenly did not know what to call her. ‘The nun in charge – at once.’

‘I’m afraid it can’t be at once,’ said Sister Bridget. ‘Reverend Mother is at Vespers.’

‘Vespers?’ Mr Leventine made it sound like an affront.

‘Our evening prayer. Will you wait in the parlour?’ and Mr Leventine found himself penned, willy-nilly, in a small bare room, spotless from its plain stone floor to its whitewashed walls and ceiling, and furnished only with a table, wooden chairs, a small bookcase of books, its legs set in saucers of Jeyes Fluid against white ants, and a crucifix.

 

Twice Mr Leventine rang the bell, twice the portress came. ‘Isn’t this – what-d’you-call-it – over yet?’

‘Not yet. They are listening to the reading now.’

‘But… this is interminable.’

‘Half an hour. That is not much.’

The second time – ‘It will not be long. They are singing the Magnificat.’

‘The Magnificat?’

‘Our Lady’s song of praise and thanksgiving.’ The portress broke into a smile. ‘That has a special meaning for us today. We have been given a horse.’

‘Given!’ Mr Leventine did not ring the bell again.

 

‘So you refuse to give him back.’

‘Under present conditions, yes, and I should have to think very carefully before something made me change my mind.’ For a moment the hazel eyes looked down. It was difficult for Mother Morag to keep a spice of amusement out of them, but she knew she must control them and look directly and seriously at Mr Leventine, and she raised them again. ‘I might even have to consult our Mother General in Bruges.’

‘Bruges! That’s in Belgium! Madam! The horse is due to race in five days.’

‘What a disappointment for you,’ said Mother Morag.

Mr Leventine seemed to swell. ‘Madam, I am not accustomed to being disappointed.’

‘What an exceptional person you must be,’ said the cool voice.

‘I am going straight to the Police, to Lall Bazaar.’

Mother Morag inclined her head in acquiescence. ‘Then I will not keep you,’ she said.

 

In the railed red brick building of the Police Headquarters in Lall Bazaar, the Chief Commissioner looked dispassionately at Mr Leventine. He had been on the point of going home when his Deputy had come imploring him, ‘Chief, I cannot deal with this case. So much bluster,’ and he had handed over his notebook.

Now, under the Chief’s bland considering gaze, even Mr Leventine faltered and the blustering grew quieter, but still, ‘No action. No response,’ cried Mr Leventine. ‘Good God, Mr Commissioner! My horse has been stolen.’

‘I think the Sisters of Poverty don’t steal.’ The Commissioner had the notebook in front of him, but he asked another question or two. Then, ‘I am sorry,’ he said, ‘but for the moment it is better we do nothing. Police do not, on principle, interfere with religious premises or disputes.’

‘This is not a dispute. It is a fact… a fact.’

‘Disputes,’ the Commissioner went on as if he had not heard. ‘Hindu, Muslim, Buddhist, Christian – unless there is violence, and I find no violence here. The Sisters of Poverty are the most deserving of all charities. We know because we often send them the destitutes we pick up from the streets or gutters and old people who have been living in hovels. I expect you have passed them thousands of times – on the other side.’ Mr Leventine drew his breath in sharply. Why should he, the injured party, be preached at? First Captain Mack, now this officer who was going on, ‘They do this city a great service and ask nothing in return.’

‘Except my most valuable horse.’

‘Not for themselves, Mr Leventine. For you, to lose that horse means you forfeit the chance of winning perhaps a great deal of money and prestige. For them the loss of theirs spells hunger, not just for themselves, but for the two hundred or so people in their Home and, if I know them, many more. Have you ever been hungry, Mr Leventine? I don’t think so. Of course you can, if you wish, involve the law, but it will bring you a great deal of odium – also it will take time.’

‘Time! The race is in five days! No, it is almost four.’

‘Then I strongly advise you to settle with the Sisters yourself. Good evening, Mr Leventine.’

 

After Mr Leventine had gone even more quietly than he came, the Commissioner, smiling more than a little, pulled a writing pad towards him. ‘Dear Reverend Mother,’ he wrote, ‘I have just seen Mr Leventine and this is to tell you I endorse… ’

Mother Morag did not open the letter until the next morning. By the time it had arrived, the Sisters were saying Compline, after which no outside business was allowed, no letters or even telephone calls, except in an emergency. ‘This is an emergency,’ she could imagine Mr Leventine saying. ‘Not to us,’ she would have replied. The telephone had sounded angrily two or three times. There had also been a hammering on the front door and, in spite of her calm, Mother Morag had passed another sleepless night. ‘So how glad I was to have your note!’ she wrote to the Commissioner.

Two tikka gharries had had to be hired for the night round. ‘We dare not let the collecting drop.’

‘But Mother, the expense!’

‘It won’t be for long,’ – ‘I hope and pray,’ she added secretly. Though Mother Morag seemed completely in command, confident and serene, inwardly she was in turmoil, most of all because, ‘Is what I am doing right?’ She would have given worlds to be able to talk to Father Joseph, but he was a timid man; worlds to have consulted her Mother Provincial and Council… what will they say to me, she thought.

After the canisters had been carried in, the food put away, again she went into the chapel which was in darkness, except for the glow of the tabernacle light. That was steady and, ‘I must be steady too,’ she told herself, but she was too tired to pray except for what perhaps is the best prayer of all, to be still, not thinking of the price of tikka gharries or crushed oats or tan-bark bedding: of Mr Leventine or Bunny or John Quillan – poor John, will he ever speak to me again? Not thinking of Solomon or Dark Invader, not even of the Sisters. Nothing – only, ‘Lord, Lord help me. Help me to do what is right under the circumstances. Lord.’

Then, as dawn broke, she heard a bird singing and went to the window; the Convent garden was still in darkness but there was light in the sky and she could just see the bird on the Convent gable end; it was a magpie-robin boldly marking its territory before the other birds began to sing, and she knew that the lovely liquid melody was her answer; it was not only prayer, a paean of praise, but defiance; not thanksgiving, but aggression. What I have I hold for my nest, my helpless ones, and, ‘Thank you,’ said Mother Morag and knelt down again.

 

Mr Leventine was beside himself with fury and frustration. ‘That Mother Morag! That nun!’ Yet, suddenly, he seemed to see her again; the dignity with which she held herself, the clear bones of her face, the hazel eyes, delicate eyebrows; her hands – Mr Leventine had not only a quick eye but, in a way, a connoisseur’s one and, She must have been a beautiful girl, he thought illogically – appreciation does not generally mix with anger – and he was furious.

‘If it wasn’t for the Viceroy’s Cup, I would let them keep the horse. That would teach them a damn good lesson. Let them try putting Darkie in between the shafts. If it wasn’t for the Cup… ’

‘But there is the Cup,’ said John.

‘I know.’ Mr Leventine’s voice rose almost to a shriek. ‘Johnny, you must get me out of this, you must.’

Only you can do that, thought John and, aloud, ‘I asked you to let me see Mother Morag in the first place. Now… ’

‘I know, I know. But – each day that horse will be going down.’

‘I don’t think so. Captain Mack… ’

‘From all I hear, those women could never afford to feed him.’

‘They can’t. The food is being given by Bunny Malwa.’

‘The young Maharajah! That young reprobate?’

‘He is a great friend of Mother Morag’s.’

‘But… ’ Mr Leventine was getting more and more bewildered. ‘I thought nuns were saintly people.’

‘I think you’ll find that saints never minded whom they mixed with. It’s the rest of us who do that,’ but John was getting weary. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘I’ll try.’

 

‘A horse forced to race against its will,’ – from the bandar-log Mother Morag had heard every detail of Dark Invader’s dramatic story – ‘ridden by a jockey it dreaded. Who knows what pain he once inflicted? Handed over to him again by your man and, when it refused, given the cruellest of cuts – ask Captain Mack, or I’ll show you myself – bolted blind with fear and pain… ’

‘Have you finished?’ asked John.

‘I see I needn’t go on.’ Mother Morag smiled. ‘You’re quite right. I knew it was a chain of seeming accidents.’

‘Seeming?’

‘Yes, I said “seeming”, but that is the story and it will spread as long as Dark Invader is here.’

‘Which is to your advantage.’

‘Of course. Also, we Sisters of Poverty take an extra vow as well as the usual three; it is the vow of hospitality. We cannot turn anyone in distress away – not even a horse.’ John could have sworn there was a mischievous glint in her eyes. ‘And do you know, Mr Quillan, that yesterday happened to be December 21st, St Thomas’s Day, when anyone in need has the right to ask alms?’

‘Mother Morag!’

‘It is true.’ Now the eyes were candid, innocent.

‘We could get an injunction.’

‘I doubt it. I had a letter from the Commissioner of Police this morning.’

‘So you have him in your pocket too.’

She ignored that and went on. ‘In any case, if you succeeded, I doubt if the crowds would let you get Dark Invader to the racecourse. You know what mobs are, particularly Indian ones. Your stables might be invaded. Mr Leventine’s beautiful car might be stoned. There could be a riot.’

‘Are you spinning me another tale?’

‘This time not. There has already been an encounter between two of your men, the syces who came with Mr Leventine for Dark Invader, them and our gateman.’

Dil Bahadur had spoken to Sadiq and Ali first through a grating in the gates. ‘What do you want?’

‘We have come to fetch our horse.’

‘Our horse,’ contradicted Dil Bahadur.

‘Ours!’

Dil Bahadur opened the wicket and came out on to the pavement, closing the door behind him.

They had confronted one another, the two Muslims – Sadiq’s upturned moustaches were fierce – and the little brown man in a starched drill tunic and medals, which included the Indian Distinguished Service Medal and three chevrons. A pillbox hat in black velvet cut in patterns sat firmly over one ear and his shaven skull, criss-crossed with the scars and weals of old wounds, gleamed in the evening sun. Dil Bahadur’s face, which could be so genial, was wiped clean of all humour. His mouth was a thin line, his eyes like brown stones. ‘You will not enter. No-one will enter. It is the Mother Sahib’s orders. I, Dil Bahadur, say so. You see these medals? With this kukri I, Dil Bahadur, cut off the heads of eight Germans.’ He made an expressive gesture and held up his fingers, ‘Eight – and, if you do not go away, I will cut off your heads too. It would not be difficult. Go away.’ He began to crowd them along the wall. ‘This is a holy place,’ said Dil Bahadur.

‘Which is what saved the situation,’ said Mother Morag now, ‘but two Muslims and a Gurkha, that’s dangerous and you know how inflammable the people are. It only needs a little agitation.’

‘Which you will provide?’ John was still angry.

‘We?’ The eyebrows lifted. ‘I am doing my best to prevent it. It’s not I who can start or stop it.’

‘Then who… ?’

‘Mr Leventine.’

‘And if he won’t move?’

‘A little pressure from Bunny… ’

John had forgotten Bunny and his power, how he had only to speak or lift a finger. Against Bunny, Mr Leventine would not have a chance, and, ‘You may be a nun,’ said John, ‘but you are a devilishly clever woman.’

‘Not devilish, I hope, and certainly not clever, though I grant we are adept in begging. Not an easy thing to learn,’ said Mother Morag, ‘especially if you are born proud but, if you believe it gives people the chance… ’

‘The chance?’

‘To become Providence, which is of God,’ and Mother Morag bent her head. Her hands were on her desk – beautiful hands, Mr Leventine had thought, but John noticed how toil-worn they were – held together now in the attitude of prayer – the same, he suddenly thought, as the Indian greeting of reverence, namaskar. What he did not see was that their tips were tightly pressed together. Then she gave a smile that was tender. ‘Yes, Bunny,’ she said. ‘Fortunately His Highness believes in miracles.’

‘So that’s what they are beginning to call this!’

‘Yes.’

‘But you?’ John was astute.

Mother Morag smiled again. ‘What most people, shall we say in the world, call miracles, are to us perfectly normal. We have a need – in this case, a horse – and, by God’s providence, a horse was sent.’

‘Then your God doesn’t know much about horses.’

‘His ways are certainly sometimes difficult to understand,’ she admitted. ‘He helps us, but we also have to help ourselves. Suppose you bring Mr Leventine to see me again.’

‘He is outside, fuming.’

 

‘This is blackmail,’ said Mr Leventine.

‘Isn’t it, rather, nemesis?’ but that was another word Mr Leventine did not know. ‘For thirty-five years,’ said Mother Morag, ‘first as a young Sister, then as Superior, I have helped to organise the collecting by which our old people live – scraps of food, Mr Leventine, scraps of money to rich people like you. Our Sisters go round the offices and most firms are generous, but yours is one of the few where, every time, they get a rebuff. It seems Leventine and Son cannot afford to spare an anna.’

‘Afford!’ That affronted Mr Leventine. ‘Madam, we are one of the most successful firms of our size in the city.’

Out of your own mouth, thought John – he was enjoying this.

‘Then perhaps it really would take a miracle to change your heart?’

‘I thought you said this was Providence,’ said John.

‘Yes, but maybe something more. Usually one can find an explanation for Providence, but how do you explain, Mr Quillan, when Dark Invader bolted, as I have heard he did, then turned and trotted, when his own stable was such a short way off, that he should suddenly have turned in here? Why?’

‘I don’t know,’ said John.

‘Nobody knows, but I think we Sisters can guess. Well then?’ said Mother Morag.

Mr Leventine looked at her. He knew he was beaten. His heart, that Mother Morag had spoken of, also knew, under his ornate waistcoat, that it had had enough. His bewildered eyes were sharp again as he asked, ‘How much for Dark Invader?’

‘Money?’ The eyebrows went up. ‘Not money, Mr Leventine. The people would never understand that. To them, though, one horse is much like another. If you would give us a carriage horse used to harness, strong yet tractable – our driver is not very skilled – a horse not too young but not too old,’ her voice faltered, she was thinking of Solomon. ‘One that Captain Mack and Mr Quillan would approve… ’

Mr Leventine was affronted again. ‘Madam, I think you will find I am as good if not a better judge of a horse than they. They would not have bought Dark Invader.’

 

‘You have twenty-four hours,’ John told Mr Leventine. ‘Today is the 22nd and I must have three days to get Dark Invader wound up.’ John had not tried to gain time – by now he knew Mother Morag too well – but Mr Leventine had. ‘If I give you my promise.’

‘Promises won’t do, Mr Leventine. Think of the people. A horse can go, certainly, but there must be a horse here.’

‘I only hope,’ said Captain Mack, ‘that he doesn’t think he can get away with rubbish, something that takes the eye. He’s probably sure that a nun can’t know one end of a horse from another.’

‘Let things take their course,’ said John and smiled.

 

That afternoon Mr Leventine was outside the Convent, stamping his foot imperiously on the bell of a smart Cee spring buggy. In the shafts was a good-looking bay horse, well-groomed and, by his appearance, English rather than Australian. Mr Leventine pulled up, got down and waited with every satisfaction for Mother Morag to appear.

‘Certainly rather good looking,’ she said, which, by her tone, sounded derogatory, and she seemed, to Mr Leventine’s dismay, to take in the whole of the horse with one glance. She walked to its head, rubbed the nose and lifted the upper lip with a deft finger, then, ‘No thank you,’ said Mother Morag.

‘No thank you?’ Mr Leventine was dazed.

‘How can you, Mr Leventine!’ Mother Morag was stern. ‘You are wasting your time – and mine. This horse has been raced. At some time he has sprained a tendon and the injury has calloused. That wouldn’t interfere with his work, but I said, “Not too young,” also “not too old.” This horse is twenty.’

‘Madam, you must be mistaken.’

‘Perhaps I am; perhaps he is even older. Look at that corner tooth, Mr Leventine. It will tell you his whole story, so – no thank you.’

Mr Leventine was chagrined, but challenged too. ‘Why not settle for that roan country-bred, Raj Kumar, belonging to the Nawab?’ asked John. ‘I actually have him in the stable. No good for racing but broken to carriage work, strong, docile, six years old. Ideal. The Nawab would let you have him for a thousand rupees.’

‘A thousand! Five hundred is the price for a country-bred.’

‘He won’t let it go for less,’ John shrugged. ‘All right, go your own way, but remember, every hour is precious.’

All the same, Mr Leventine could not resist trying again. This time it was a dapple grey – ‘a colour ladies seem to like’ – and a true carriage horse, belonging to a Greek, Mr Petrides, who drove sedately to his office every morning, sedately back every evening, and was now retiring so that his Bimbo was for sale. Bimbo was ten years old, but had been little used – ‘an advantage in a car but not in a horse,’ said Mother Morag – and, ‘overfed, underworked and listen, Mr Leventine,’ she lifted her arm in a sudden deliberate gesture so that her sleeve flapped, startling Bimbo into the loud grunt that spells a broken wind. This time Mother Morag had no need to speak to Mr Leventine or to say, ‘No thank you.’ She simply looked at him in reproach.

Mr Leventine found himself with another curious new feeling. He was torn; half of him filled with chagrin because, for once, he could not make a bargain, half of him filled with admiration for this, to him, revelation of a nun.

‘Cas, why not give in?’ said John. ‘Take her the roan.’

‘But the price! A thousand rupees.’

‘I’ll pay half,’ said John. ‘After all, the whole thing is my fault,’ but, for some reason he did not understand, Mr Leventine refused. ‘Have I ever before refused to bargain?’ He did not know what was the matter with him – it was like having teeth drawn – but an hour later he and the buggy drove into the Convent again, and this time, between the shafts was a horse, but one with a difference, an upstanding red-roan with the arched neck, corkscrew ears of an Indian country-bred, and a splendid Arab tail. He was strong, vigorous, but obviously tractable with an intelligent but docile eye and, ‘Ah!’ said Mother Morag.

She examined him as carefully as she had the others, but this time her voice was warm, her eyes bright. Then, putting the last hoof down and giving the right flank a pat, she said, ‘I should like to try him.’

‘Try him. You mean… ’

‘I mean that while a horse may seem suitable, until he is ridden or driven… ’

‘I will take you gladly. Let me help you up,’ and, as he joined her and Sister Ignatius in the buggy, ‘Now where shall I drive you?’

‘I will drive.’ Mother Morag had already gathered up the reins. Mr Leventine had never thought he would be seen being driven round Ballygunj in a buggy by a nun, another sitting up behind, but he soon forgot his embarrassment as he saw how Mother Morag drove, with what skill she coaxed response from the strong roan, how lightly she held him.

‘But how,’ he was to ask John when he got back to the office, ‘how does a nun know about horses?’

‘Simple,’ said Captain Mack – they were all gathered there – ‘she was born to it. Her father was Dawson – Rattler Dawson – the leading horse dealer in Dublin.’

‘Yes,’ said Bunny. ‘That’s how I met her. My father used to buy horses from her father. He made a fortune from us because Papa wouldn’t have any other colour than chestnut and didn’t mind what he paid.’

‘And Mother Morag – Helen Dawson as she was then – used to show off hunters when she was still at school,’ said John. ‘I believe that did wonders with the young cavalry officers from the Curragh. Couldn’t bear to be bested by a brat in pigtails,’ and he said, ‘she knows all right.’

‘She certainly knows,’ said Mr Leventine gloomily.

‘That was satisfactory,’ Mother Morag had said as she jumped down from the buggy. Mr Leventine had been ready to help her, but she jumped down like a girl and he was left to help stiff old Sister Ignatius. ‘How I enjoyed that!’ She sounded so elated that he was not prepared for what came next. ‘Of course we still have to try him in the cart.’

‘The… cart?’

‘Yes – it’s much more difficult than a beautifully sprung buggy. It’s heavy and awkward. Also we must see if Gulab, our driver, can manage Raj Kumar who is not yet as well-trained as Solomon, but you’ll see.’

‘You mean… I am to come with you?’ This time Mr Leventine really did shrink, but mysteriously found himself seated next to the driver in the cart. ‘This is what she does to you,’ Bunny was to tell him, ‘and you don’t know how.’

The cart did not run, it trundled; the tyres on its large wheels were so thin that it jarred. Its roof was of canvas so old that obviously it had let in the rain and it stank of mildew. The flooring was of rough planking on which some dozen canisters, as large as dustbins, rattled. The lights were two hand-lanterns that swung from hooks each side of the cart; another was hung inside. There were two small wooden seats for the Sisters while, in front, a wide plank set on battens and covered with a strip of carpet made the driver’s seat, and, ‘This is impossible,’ said Mr Leventine. He hoped, almost prayed, that nobody he knew would see him perched up beside the old Hindu bundled in his ancient coat. What if Sir Humphrey should pass? Mr Leventine shrank back under the hood but still he felt conspicuous and, ‘Impossible,’ he said.

‘It is what we have,’ Mother Morag was serene, ‘and has been possible for years. Would you believe it, Mr Leventine, that this old cart has been the means of feeding some hundreds of people every day?’ She did not add, ‘with what you throw away!’ ‘But sometimes I do not know how Gulab manages it.’

‘Nor do I,’ said Mr Leventine.

‘It will be better with Strawberry,’ – the Sisters had already abandoned the grand name of Raj Kumar for homely Strawberry, and, ‘Strawberry is more adroit,’ said Mother Morag.

Back in the Convent courtyard she patted him gratefully. ‘Poor old Solomon’s mouth was hard,’ and, ‘Better with Strawberry,’ she told Gulab who was already gleaming with pride.

‘And better still,’ said Mr Leventine, ‘you will have the buggy.’

‘The buggy?’

‘The buggy, of course, is yours too.’

That did take her by surprise. ‘But, dear Mr Leventine, what should we do with a buggy? How would it hold our canisters? Protect the Sisters in wet weather? Yes, I know our canvas leaks, but… ’

‘You could use the buggy for errands,’ but she shook her head.

‘The poor don’t have buggies and we are Sisters of Poverty; we do our errands as they do, by ’bus or tram, or on our own feet when we can’t afford fares. We have the cart only for our “collecting” and Strawberry must pull that. It is most kind of you… ’ She paused, then a look came over her face, a shrewdness, twin, he recognised with unexpected comradeship, of his own. ‘Of course, as you are so generous, perhaps the cost of the buggy could repair our cart.’

‘Repair that! You shall have a new cart.’ Mr Leventine seemed unable to stop himself saying it and at once wanted to retract. He should have added ‘one day,’ which would have meant never; he was just going to say it when the old Sister spoke, the one who had accompanied Mother Morag like a shadow and had never opened her mouth. Now, in a curiously deep and impressive voice, she said, ‘God bless you, Mr Leventine,’ and a strange feeling of happiness that seemed to come from outside himself warmed and illumined Mr Leventine. He had never been blessed before.

 

Strawberry’s papers and certificates had been handed over, ‘Now all we have to do,’ said Mr Leventine, ‘is make our amicable exchange,’ and another, even stranger, sensation filled him, a feeling of deep gratification, though why he should be gratified when he had been forced – yes, forced – to spend a great deal of money, he did not know, but he felt it, as he said, ‘our amicable exchange. The Quillan syces have arrived to fetch Dark Invader.’ He bowed to Mother Morag in what was meant to be a farewell, but a crowd had gathered outside the gate, a crowd that was growing larger; the air was full of murmurs and wonderings and Mother Morag said suddenly, ‘It would be wise – I think imperative – that the people see the horse goes willingly.’

Dark Invader would not go willingly. After these two halcyon days, he had no intention of returning to the effort and stress of the racecourse. The quiet walks around the vegetable garden while he was talked to gently, or heard gentle talking – the fact that Mother Morag was saying a psalm made no difference to Dark Invader – the tidbits of bread and salt that came like manna from heaven at unexpected times, Gulab’s and Mother Morag’s gentle grooming, none of that thump and slapping, all suited his large, lazy and greedy self. When Gulab led him out of the stall he thought at first it was for another quiet wander or some more bread and salt. Instead, he saw Sadiq and Ali advancing. Dark Invader stopped, looking carefully, then laid back his ears, showed his teeth and, when Sadiq put his hand on the halter rope, taking it from Gulab, the Invader gave vent to a sideways swing of his head that hit his hard jawbone on Gulab’s face and drew a gasp from the crowd.

Then they, Mr Leventine and the nuns, were given a display of such horse fireworks they had never seen or imagined. Dark Invader kicked, reared, beating the air with his forefeet, bringing them down on the cobblestones with a crash and going up again. Sadiq and Ali manfully held on, dodging the flashing hooves, shouting and cursing, while Mr Leventine wailed, ‘Last time it was on the racecourse on grass, here it is stone. He will come down. He will injure himself.’ It was only the appearance of Sister Barbara and Sister Joanna bearing, like handmaidens, slices of bread and salt, calling in their cooing voices, ‘Beauty, Beauty, Beauty,’ that made Dark Invader stop. As if nothing had happened, he accepted their tidbits and when Sister Joanna took the rope from Sadiq, let her lead him towards the vegetable garden leaving the two grooms out of breath and shamed, their turbans half off their heads, and furiously, ‘Allah! Ismallah! Shaitan! Satan!’ Sadiq muttered, rewinding his turban, while Gulab staunched his nosebleed. ‘Do you think,’ the shattered Mr Leventine asked Mother Morag, ‘that the sight of Sadiq could have brought back this famous fear?’

‘Not at all,’ said Mother Morag. ‘The horse was not sweating or lathered or trembling. He simply wanted to have his own way – but poor Sadiq and Gulab.’

‘Of course.’ Mr Leventine slapped his thigh. ‘Of course, that fool Johnny should never have sent them,’ and he bellowed, ‘Why didn’t he send Ted Mullins?’ and Mr Leventine ordered, ‘Telephone Quillan and tell him to send Mullins at once. No – wait,’ and Mr Leventine said majestically, ‘I will fetch him myself.’

 

‘Mullins. Mullins!’

Ted raised his head. He was sitting where he had sat for most of the last two days – at the desk in the darkest corner of the darkened room – he had kept the shutters closed. There was nothing on the desk now; the photograph of him and Ella in her ‘lace curtain’ had been shut away in the drawer, as had been the framed form of his new licence. From long habit he had gone to bed at night, undressed, put on his nightshirt, only to lie awake; at dawn when he heard the Jemadar’s call, he got up, shaved and dressed but, as he heard the horses go out, he took a cup of tea from Ahmed’s tray, leaving the toast and bananas untouched, and shut himself in the room again. ‘He will die!’ Dahlia wept in her distress. ‘For two days he has taken nothing but that cup of tea, no food, no drink. He will die.’

‘No-one dies from going without food or drink for two days,’ said John.

‘Papa – you must forgive poor Ted. You must.’ The bandar-log were frantic. ‘You are not to go near him,’ John had ordered them, but of course they disobeyed, or would have if Ted had allowed it, but, ‘If your Pa says no – no it is,’ Ted’s voice had said from inside. Still they kept vigil, tried to prise open the shutters with their fingers, to creep in through the bathroom, but he had locked the inner door.

‘Papa. Please, please,’ but, ‘Mr Mullins,’ John had said, ‘is going straight back to England.’

‘But John, why are you so hard?’ Dahlia pleaded. ‘You’re not usually so hard.’

‘Because usually I know what to expect, but I trusted Ted.’ There were few people John Quillan trusted and Dahlia knew he was not only angry but hurt, deeply hurt and, ‘I don’t want to see him again,’ said John.

Ted knew it and shut himself out of sight. Now, ‘Mullins, open the door.’

It was the voice of authority. Dazed, Ted got up, drew back the bolts and opened the shutters, wincing at the light.

‘And what do you think you are doing? Or not doing?’ asked Mr Leventine.

‘Doing?’ mumbled Ted.

‘Why are you not with your charge? With Dark Invader?’

‘The… the Invader, sir?’ Ted croaked. ‘I knew he had been found, thanks be. Mr Quillan sent me a note.’ ‘I had to, in decency,’ John said. ‘But I thought… thought he was out of the race, that he wouldn’t race now.’

‘And what business have you in thinking? Who says he’s out of the race?’

‘Then – he isn’t?’ Joy lit up Ted’s face. ‘You mean he’s fit! But… ’ and the shame came back. ‘Anyway, I’m out.’

‘Who says so?’

‘Mr Quillan.’

‘Who employs you?’ Mr Leventine’s ‘Who?’s grew more and more regal. ‘I – or Mr Quillan?’

‘I suppose… you do, sir.’

‘Exactly,’ said Mr Leventine. ‘You will take your orders from me, and at this moment they are that you will come with me in my car and get this… this animal out of this ridiculous situation and bring him immediately home.’

‘Me?’ Ted sounded as if he could not believe his ears.

‘Who else?’ and Mr Leventine, looking down at the little man who seemed to have shrunk even more and aged by twenty years, put a plump hand on the rigid shoulder and said, ‘I think no-one else but you can do it, Teddy.’

Far from grating on him, the silly little nickname heartened Ted as nothing else could have done. No-one since Ella had called him Teddy and Ted took his clean handkerchief out of his pocket – by habit he had a clean handkerchief every morning – used it, put it meticulously away and said, ‘I’m ready, sir.’

 

‘We call him Beauty,’ Sister Joanna told Ted and Ted’s chivalry rose to the occasion. ‘A good name for him, ma’am.’

‘Not ma’am. I’m a Sister.’

‘Ain’t never had a sister.’ It was an emotional evening for Ted, but that did not prevent him giving Dark Invader a thorough rating. ‘You shocker! That’s what you are, a shocker.’

A secret fear had been removed from Ted; he could not help remembering, even though he had been fuddled, how Dark Invader had not greeted him that night. ‘Thought he had gone off me for Mr Saddick,’ but when Ted gave his whistle across the Convent vegetable garden, Dark Invader pricked his ears. There was a loud whicker of welcome and the Invader tried to break away from Gulab and Sister Joanna. Ted had gone quickly to the rescue. ‘Shocker! Putting it on for these kind ladies. Never heard of such a thing, but don’t think you can get away with it. You’ve been too kind to him, ma’am – Sister,’ and, ‘You’re coming home, my lad,’ said Ted to Dark Invader who looked at him lovingly, a cabbage-leaf dangling from his lips – nothing had been nicer than the nibbles of fresh vegetables in the Convent garden, but, ‘Home’. Ted said it sternly and, recalling his war years, ‘Toot de sweet and the tooter the sweeter.’

‘But how do you think you’ll get him there?’ asked Sister Joanna.

‘Ride him, of course. Would you ask that man of yours to bring the saddle and bridle?’ My saddle, Ted almost said, Ching didn’t ought to have touched it, but remembering the reason, blushed and kept quiet and was glad that he had when John Quillan appeared with Gulab. He did not speak to Ted but gave him a leg up when Dark Invader had been saddled and bridled; he had not objected even when Ted tightened the girth. ‘He’s wise enough to know when the game’s up,’ Ted told Sister Joanna. Once more in the saddle he gathered up the reins. ‘Say goodbye and thank you.’

‘But wouldn’t it be safer,’ Sister Ignatius said, ‘if we opened the garden gate and he went out that way?’

‘That wouldn’t do,’ said Mother Morag. ‘He must leave through the crowd,’ and, ‘It will probably be with the crowd.’

The crowd was getting bigger, they could hear the rising hum and, ‘Can you manage him?’ asked anxious Mr Leventine.

‘Gawd Almighty!’ said Ted; back in the saddle with Dark Invader under him, that was almost the power he felt. ‘The Invader and I, ain’t we used to crowds?’ and he ran his finger in the familiar Ted gesture up the long line of Dark Invader’s mane, but there was a doubt in Ted’s mind. John Quillan had given Ted his chance, almost equally with Mr Leventine, gone along with him all the way and, though John now was silent, hostile, Ted was not taking Dark Invader out without his permission and, ‘Mr Quillan, sir?’ asked Ted. It was a beseeching.

John raised his head and perhaps only Dahlia could have told what the quirk of a smile he gave Ted meant, and, ‘Go to it, Ted,’ said John.

 

‘Almost as big a crowd as for the Cup,’ said John.

There had been no trouble, no Invader antics. Mother Morag had pulled his ears and given him a most un-nun-like slap on the rump. Sister Joanna had whispered, ‘We shall miss you, Beauty,’ and Ted had ridden him out of the vegetable garden, through the courtyard, past the rows of nuns, past Gulab who, with a swollen nose, was standing guard over the stable where Strawberry was eating his supper, past Dil Bahadur who saluted, and into the crowd which parted respectfully then, as Mother Morag had predicted, arranged itself to accompany them up the road. Bunny had driven up – ‘I thought it wise to ask him,’ said Mother Morag – and he controlled the concourse, but Ted sat easily, using the long rein. Only once did he jerk it when Dark Invader nosed too eagerly for the jilipis and sweets that were offered. Marigolds were thrown down too and both were garlanded. Dark Invader put his head down graciously as if flowers were his due, but Ted turned a deeper bronze and hunched his shoulders. Sadiq and Ali followed, chastened, and as they neared the Quillan stables, the bandar-log came dancing down, and, as Ted dismounted, Dahlia, who was waiting by Dark Invader’s stall, threw her arms round Ted’s neck and kissed him.

 

‘A little fast work tomorrow morning,’ John gave Ted his orders, as if nothing had happened, thought Ted. ‘You can take him as far as the four furlong mark. Ching can pace you with Flashlight. Repeat on Christmas Day, then, on the morning of the race, a two furlong sprint just to clear his wind. Got that?’ asked John.

‘Yes sir,’ said Ted.

 

Sir Humphrey met Mr Leventine on Christmas Day in the billiard room where both had taken refuge – sanctuary, thought Mr Leventine.

‘Well, how are you, Leventine?’

‘Thank you. I’m in clover.’

‘Hear you had some trouble with your horse down on the course.’

‘Just nemesis,’ Mr Leventine waved his hand. ‘We were foolish enough to let another jockey try him.’

‘Doesn’t answer so close to the race. Hope it hasn’t impaired his chances.’

‘We still hope to turn a nimble shilling on him.’

The Judge looked slightly astonished but only said, ‘Well, good wishes for the day.’

‘Bless you, Sir Humphrey,’ said Mr Leventine.

 

The Sisters had made a small crib in the Chapel. ‘In the excitement I had almost forgotten tomorrow is Christmas Eve,’ and Dahlia brought the bandar-log to see it.

‘Don’t take them,’ said John. ‘They won’t know what it means and will want to play with it and probably tear it to pieces.’

They certainly knew what it meant. They had brought with them two small clay horses, one painted dark brown, the other dark red. ‘Mohan, our friend in the bazaar, made them for us. Don’t you think they’re pretty?’

‘Very pretty,’ said Mother Morag. Mohan, in the way of Indian potters, had added a few painted daisies and golden necklaces.

‘They are to stand close to the Jesus,’ said the eldest boy.

‘Oh no! they can’t.’ Sister Ignatius was shocked.

‘Why not? You have an ox and an ass.’

‘And they must. Darkie has come to say “thank you”. Strawberry has come to say “please”,’ explained the eldest girl.

‘No – they have both come to say “thank you”. They both have come to say “please”,’ said the bandar who was the youngest except for the two babies. At that moment, with his big eyes turned up to look at Mother Morag, he looked less like a monkey, more like a wise little owl and, ‘Yes, put them close to the manger,’ said Mother Morag, ‘and both of them shall say thank you and please, so shall we,’ and that night in chapel she announced, ‘Tonight we shall sing the Te Deum:’

 

Te Deum laudamus: te Dominum confitemur

Te aeternum patrem omnis terra veneratur

 

We praise thee, O God…

All the earth doth worship thee…

Dark Invader was back unharmed at Quillan’s. Strawberry was in the Convent stall. ‘Tonight we will take him on the round, and I don’t think we’ll need any more expensive tikka gharries,’ Mother Morag told Sister Ignatius. Mr Leventine had promised a new cart. John Quillan was mollified, though Captain Mack still smiled. Bunny was enchanted, but Mother Morag’s knees felt weak all the same and she said, ‘I don’t want to see or hear a magpie-robin again.’ Then she stopped. ‘But – magpie-robins… they don’t come till March. That one I heard’ – she almost said, spoke to me – ‘was singing out of season!’