Historical Fiction
The Tea Planter’s Wife
As he ran his tongue around the jewel in her crown she let out a whimper…
Deepak watched a cockroach scuttle across the tiled floor as he rhythmically pulled the cord which operated the bedroom fan. The insect was free to come and go but woe betide him if he should desert his post. All hell would break loose because some Britishers were getting hot. Why did they come to India in the first place if the heat was not to their liking? With any luck this threat of war might see them all toddle off back to Blighty.
Apart from Mrs Hobbs that is. Recently, Deepak had slightly increased the width of a crack between the door frame and the wall. It was an easy enough job, because although the bungalow looked like an elegant abode, set as it was in the verdant hills around Ooty, it was in fact, shoddily constructed.
With Mr Hobbs, a tea planter, away on business, Deepak knew he would be in for a good show tonight. Even with the mosquito net covering the bed he was able to see her well enough. She was twenty-five, dark haired and with smooth white skin. To see her firm breasts always made him gasp with delicious admiration.
But tonight was different because the memsahib was not alone. A man had appeared, sporting an erection, the like of which Deepak had only seen in temples. And like those erotic sculptures the man started to take Mrs Hobbs through a wide variety of sexual positions. The one which seemed to please her the most was when the man thrust himself into her from behind. Deepak watched incredulously as the cock pumped in and out. How she took that great length he couldn’t imagine but take it she did and with each thrust she let out a cry of blissful satisfaction. Eventually the man, with a stifled groan, ejaculated inside her.
It had not taken Deepak long to realise who the man was. It could prove to be a useful bit of information to keep up his sleeve.
The Maharajah of Nilgiri had just reached ninety-four, when it was decided by the captain of the home team to have a break for drinks.
The Maharajah did not leave the crease and had one of his men bring out a cooling refreshment on an elegant tray. As he sipped it he said to his servant, ‘Today we will win and show these Britishers who is boss. They pretend they are on the playing fields of Eton and walk around with their noses in the air. No wonder this hill station is called Snooty Ooty.’
Drinks over, Bill Finnegan, started his run up. His flannel shirt billowing as he steamed down towards the stumps. The ball was released and flew through the air at great speed. It fizzed for a moment as the seam bit into the hard soil, allowing the Maharajah to flick it imperiously off his toes and into the air. The crowd watched it sail well over the boundary and disappear into the long grass beyond for six.
The Maharajah held up his bat to accept the applause of the crowd.
‘Good shot,’ said Maddie Hobbs to her husband.
‘Not bad I suppose. For an Indian.’
Maddie walked away from her husband in disgust.
Just then a loud cry went out from one of the fielders who was looking for the ball. Bill Finnegan raced over to see what the fuss was about. There, under a tree, was the body of an Indian. He almost had the air of someone sleeping if it weren’t for the large slit across his throat and the wounds in his chest. Finnegan quickly switched from being a cricketer to being a policeman. He was the Assistant District Superintendent.
The Maharajah sauntered over with his bat tucked under his arm.
‘Is this going to take much longer Mr Finnegan?’
‘A man has been killed your highness. I’m afraid we’ll have to call the match off.’
‘A great pity, especially as I was doing so well but I agree the decent thing would be to pull up the stumps. Please feel free to use one of my cars to transport the body to the mortuary.’
Finnegan was kneeling by the body looking for clues. The strange thing was, the murdered man was wearing a light flannel suit and canvas shoes.
‘He’s dressed like a tea planter, Mr Finnegan. Let us not hope he had ideas above his station,’ said the Maharajah with a chuckle.
Though it was now red with dried blood Finnegan was just able to see the name tag on the inside of the jacket. It read G. Hobbs. But Gerald Hobbs was sitting in the pavilion sipping chilled champagne with his wife.
The Maharajah came nearer. ‘Very upsetting business Mr Finnegan. Upon closer inspection I recognise the sorry man.’
‘Who is it,’ said Bill, impatiently.
‘It is Mr Hobbs’ punkah wallah, Deepak. Poor chap.’
Soon everyone apart from Finnegan had departed. The body was safely in the mortuary. He poked around in the undergrowth and quickly found what he was looking for.
The Maharajah, who was in his late twenties, lived in unrivalled splendour five miles out of Ooty in what the British called the stately pleasure dome.
As usual after one of his many sporting endeavours he was relaxing with his favourite wife. Aged nineteen, she was the oldest of his five wives. He had his head between her legs and was feeding greedily on her vulva. He loved to taste her petals, as he called them, and to feel them swell in his mouth.
As he ran his tongue around the jewel in her crown she let out a whimper.
‘One hundred runs your highness is a noble feat deserving of a noble prize.’
‘What can you give the man who has everything?’
She turned over, clasped her buttocks and spread her cheeks apart.
The Maharajah was just about to ease himself in when he was thrown off his stride by a commotion outside. It was that damned Bill Finnegan.
‘This is a murder enquiry your highness. I just have one or two questions and then you can get back to whatever you were doing.’
They had repaired to one of the innumerable reception rooms. The Maharajah was no longer in his cricket whites but had changed into silks. His hair was black and swept back over his forehead. And slightly long over the collar.
‘Would you care for a drink Mr Finnegan?’
‘Tea would be splendid.’
‘Hah! Tea. You British and your tea.’
‘Well I’m Irish actually so I’m as much welcome here as you are at times.’
‘I did wonder about the red hair and the strange accent. The British are a most ungrateful lot. They are happy to come here and enjoy my parties, and yet they do not let me join their clubs. I am ostracised in my own bloody country.’
Finnegan took out a knife and placed it on the table.
‘I just found this by the body. Do you recognise it, your highness?’
‘It looks like a run of the mill knife to me. They are ‘two a penny’, I think you would say.’
‘But it is curved and there are jewels in the handle. The sort of knife that a maharajah might own.’
‘Possibly. And on closer inspection I believe it is one of mine.’
‘How would you account for it being used to murder Deepak?’
‘My hands are clean Mr Finnegan. I had no part in this. If I were you I would have a word or two with Mr Hobbs. He doesn’t always play with a straight bat, if you catch my drift.’
‘I’m on my way to see him now.’
‘Good. But before you go and I return to my unfinished business, let me just mark your card.’
Finnegan knew Hobbs slightly. He was a stuck up snob. He knew Mrs Hobbs very well and for the first time in his thirty-five years he was in love. As he drove towards the Hobbs’ tea plantation he tried to piece together the clues, along with the extra bits of information the Maharajah had just tossed his way.
At the moment though, all he could really think about was Maddie Hobbs and the possibility she might be in danger.
They’d met about a year before at the Gymkhana Club. Seeing her husband drift off for a game of bridge he’d taken the opportunity and sauntered over.
‘Do you know Mr Finnegan, if it weren’t for the heat we could almost be in England.’
‘You know my name?’
‘I have little else to do here other than keep up to date with any newcomers to Ooty.’
She held out her hand. ‘Maddie Hobbs. Pleased to meet you.’
It was just a brief handshake but there was a warmth and friendliness in it. Something which had been lacking in his life for some time.
The waiter came over and Finnegan ordered two chota pegs upon her recommendation.
‘I’ve become quite accustomed to these little gin and tonics,’ she said. ‘Purely for medicinal reasons you understand.’
‘Naturally.’ They laughed at the well worn joke.
‘I think I’m going to enjoy knowing you, Mr Finnegan.’
‘It’s Bill. Which you probably already know.’
‘Then tell me Bill. Do you think it is inevitable?’
As he stared into her eyes he was transfixed by her beauty. Yes, It was inevitable. After only a short time in her company he already ached to have her.
‘Oh, yes Maddie, it is inevitable.’
‘I agree, but I hope we’re wrong. It’s hardly any time since the last war.’
As the weeks wore on they snatched precious moments alone until one evening they were able to spend the night together. She told him she had come to India five years previously in search of a husband, just like hundreds of other girls from England in a custom known as the Fishing Fleet.
‘Some made excellent catches but I should have thrown Gerald back in the sea and returned to England.’
‘But then we wouldn’t have met.’
‘Very true, my love.’
She was lying on Finnegan’s chest, enjoying a moment of post coital bliss. Their heartbeats and breathing were as one. The only other sounds were the cries of jackals, the hum of insects and the creak of the ceiling fan.
‘You don’t think the punkah wallah heard us, do you.?’
‘No Bill, Deepak is deaf.’
Maddie was standing on the front steps when Finnegan drove up.
‘Thank god you’re here Bill.’
‘Calm yourself Maddie. What’s happened?’
‘Gerald has gone. We had an argument. I asked him if he knew anything about the murder and he went mad. He drove off about ten minutes ago, with all our money, my jewellery and his revolver.’
Finnegan tried to persuade her to stay put while he went off after her husband but it was useless.
‘We do this together Bill. You and me. I’m not letting you out of my sight.’
Finnegan put his foot hard down on the accelerator and they raced off in pursuit.
‘Do you think Gerald killed Deepak?’
‘It looks that way. I discovered he was having trouble with the Maharajah. Trivial stuff. The Maharajah wanted to buy some of the tea plantation to expand his golf course. Gerald would have none of it and started saying some pretty nasty things about the Maharajah. The Maharajah decided to get his own back and get some dirt on Gerald so he persuaded Deepak to spy for him.’
‘So he wasn’t a punkah wallah at all?’
‘Well he was, but with a sideline in spying. He wasn’t deaf though.’
‘Deepak learnt that Gerald had penile dysfunction and had been visiting Indian doctors in the region for a remedy but with no success. The Maharajah blackmailed Gerald and said unless he allowed him to build his golf extension he would let it be known that Gerald was only half a man, so to speak, and also that he beat you.’
‘This is all rather unsavoury Bill.’
‘The murder weapon was a gift from the Maharajah to Deepak for services rendered.
Somehow, Gerald found out that Deepak was spying and killed him with the dagger the day before the cricket match.’
‘But why was he in Gerald’s clothes.’
‘To frame the Maharajah. To make it look as if he, the Maharajah, had stabbed Gerald, not realising it was Deepak. But the jacket had been put on the body after the attack. There were no holes in the jacket you see. Just in Deepak’s body.
‘That’s Gerald’s car,’ cried Maddie as they screeched round a bend.
Gerald’s Daimler was just ahead, going flat out down the mountain pass. He took the next hairpin too fast and lost control of the car. It skidded to a halt in a cloud of dust. Finnegan stopped too. From out of the dust walked Hobbs. He was holding a pistol in his right hand. Finnegan reached for his Webley in the glove compartment.
‘This could get nasty Maddie. Stay in the car and keep your head down.’
‘It’s you Finnegan. Damn and blast you man. I thought I was being chased by some ruddy dacoits.’
‘And you with all that money and jewellery on board.’
‘What the devil are you talking about?’
‘Put the gun down Hobbs. I’m taking you in.’
‘What the hell for? Has the sun addled your Irish brain?’
‘Don’t make this hard for me Hobbs. I just want a few wee words with you about murder. Simple as that.’
‘I’m sorry Finnegan but I have a meeting in Madras, so as nice as it would be to chat and all that.’
Hobbs turned to get back in his car and a shot rang out. He fell to the ground. Finnegan looked round to see Maddie with a Browning automatic in her hand.
‘He had it coming to him Bill.’
‘Give me the gun Maddie.’
She ignored Finnegan and walked over to Hobbs and kicked him before firing another shot into him.’
Finnegan ran towards her and she levelled her weapon at him.
‘Don’t try and stop me Bill. It was fun while it lasted, the sex was frightfully good but you simply had no idea about anything. You swallowed everything the Maharajah fed you.’
‘What are you saying?’
‘Gerald was many things but he was never a murderer. Unlike me.’
Three bullets pumped into Finnegan in quick succession and he was dead before he hit the dusty ground.
Today, in the churchyard of St Stephen’s, Ooty, lie the remains of many who died serving the British Empire, including those of Gerald Hobbs and Bill Finnegan. Nobody remembers who they were and why they died. It was, after all, a long time ago.
They could almost be in England, if it weren’t for the heat.
