Jack, the Lady Killer

by H. R. F. Keating, H.R.F. Keating

Overview

The Punjab in India. 1935. The sub-continent under the Raj. Fresh from his English boarding school, Jack Steele is a new recruit to the Indian Imperial Police and soon begins to acquire the attitudes of old India hands towards the people under their rule. Only a few months into his posting, Jack has to conduct a murder investigation when one of the British community at his Station, the sexually rapacious widow Milly Marchbanks, is found strangled. To Jack's consternation, the only clue implicates a member of the Briton's Club. But which one? While Jack goes round and round in circles, his self-effacing Indian sergeant, Bulaki Ram, discreetly nudges him along the way he needs to go.
H. R. F. Keating is best known for his long series of Inspector Ghote mysteries set in India, but Jack, the Lady Killer is something completely different as well as completely unexpected. It is one of the rarest forms known to literature, a detective novel in verse. Inspired by Vikram Seth's brilliantly successful revival of the verse novel in The Golden Gate, Keating develops his rhyme-crime in nearly 300 fourteen-line stanzas. During a writing career spanning forty years, Keating has won many honours, most notably the award of the CWA Cartier Diamond Dagger in 1996 for a lifetime's achievement. Since 1985 he has been President of the Detection Club in succession to some of the greats of British crime fiction, G. K. Chesterton, Dorothy L. Sayers, Agatha Christie and Julian Symons.

Product Details

ISBN-13:	9781890208240
Publisher:	Poisoned Pen Press
Publication date:	10/01/1999
Edition description:	Us
Pages:	164
Product dimensions:	5.55(w) x 8.52(h) x 0.57(d)

Read an Excerpt

Chapter One

The place? Punjab, its dusty plains.
The time our story comes alive?
A time gone by, a day's remains,
India, 1935.
Our hero? He's a lad called Jack.
Just that. Not John. Alas, alack,
that single name will be a weight
around his neck, a heavy fate.
Before we reach our final word
he'll curse this name that is his own.
A name, he thinks, not his alone
but a killer's, though unheard.
A killer Jack — it's much to ask —
will find his duty to unmask.

But there's another boy who'll play
a major part in this our tale.
A very different lad. Let's say
a pole apart. Yes, he's male,
but that is all that links the two.
Our Jack is one who's going to
rule the land where he's arrived.
The other's one who hasn't thrived
in any way, not half Jack's age,
an orphan kid with just one gift,
one talent, one, that just will lift
the little boy on to our page.
But there he'll have a major part.
You'll find him at the story's heart.

'Little Brown Gramophone',
that's what he's called by one and all.
All hangs on him, on him alone,
upon his gift, however small.
It is a trick he's always had,
the mimic's gift for good or bad.
Yes, bad or good, the fact remains:
words heard just once he then retains,
whether in English or Punjabi,
or even both together blended.
Quite often scarcely comprehended
(the sahib's shout 'Bring whisky pani'),
whatever words this chhokra heard
he'd parrotback, the boy a bird.

And that is all the worldly wealth
the boy, aged eight, or nine, or seven,
has to his name. Not cash, nor health
(already a cough's predicting heaven,
or, as a Hindu, one more life).
His gift, then, perched upon a knife-edge.
But his gift's the single clue
to the black puzzle shortly due
to confront our hero, Jack.
And Jack, be sure, is still unskilled
(it's not enough just to have willed)
in sahibdom, still to learn the knack
of ruling a whole sub-continent
by guile, by force, by sentiment.

For these three strains in far-off days
combined in India to uphold
a master race. The steady gaze
of just one man, unbending, bold,
would quail a thousand, kind yet stern.
This gaze Jack Steele has still to learn,
just six months here. A mere nineteen,
he must not think what he has been,
a boy immured at boarding school.
Oh yes, he was a leader then,
yet those he led were scarcely men.
But now he's being trained to rule,
to act the sahib, to be a god,
nor fear, nor favour. Wield the rod.

And who's he got as trainer guide?
A sahib of sahibs, a gentleman,
an India hand in wool deep-dyed,
the sahibest sahib in all the clan.
Yes, though young Jack is quite at sea,
he is not left to wander free.
No, India's Imperial Police,
keeper of King-Emperor's peace,
provides as shepherd, ward and watch,
one Mr Guthrie, 'F.H.R.'
or 'R.H.F.' or 'H.F.R.'
By those initials (placed hotch-potch
as often as the right way round)
he's called by all. And he is sound.

So watch Jack as he bells the cat.
Let's eavesdrop on the master's teaching,
which Guthrie Sahib describes as 'chat'.
Teaching? Well, perhaps it's preaching.
So, see him there spoonfeeding Jack,
pipe in mouth, chair tilted back.
A man of forty, not much more,
blue-eyed, lean, hard to the core,
red-armed, red-legged, in shorts and shirt,
thick yellow hair on both, a pelt.
Across his chest his Sam Browne belt.
And nowhere any spot of dirt.
That's Guthrie Sahib, called F.H.R.,
who prides himself on seeing far.

We've found them in the police daftar,
Jack newly here, no lessons read,
now learning not from his Papa
but from this quasi-Dad instead.
Guthrie's now parentis loco,
saying what's 'done' and what is no go.
'You've been out riding? Excellent, lad.
Keep fit, keep fit. Or you'll go bad.
By saying bad don't think I mean
you'll lose your tone, or lose your zest.
I mean that soon — don't think I jest —
you'll take to drink, or find you've been
eyeing black bints with evil thoughts.
Worse, letting John T. escape your shorts.

Talking of that, of, you know, sex,
don't think that every lady here
— just as well to clear the decks —
always wears, well, her underwear.
Most, of course, are pukka mems,
jewels in the Crown, just perfect gems.
But, listen, lad, yet don't repeat it,
if Milly beckons, smile — and beat it.
Milly Marchbanks, widow lady,
should have gone Home when old Mike died.
But you be warned: she's pretty shady,
a shady lady, now untied
from marriage bonds, if ever heeded.
Ask me, lad, a spanking's needed.'

Guthrie stops short. He's said too much.
He coughs, looks down, picks up a file.
'Excuse me, lad, if like a Dutch
uncle I go on.' A smile.
'But I'll be frank. There was last year
a boy like you and stationed here,
not in the Police, but Forestry.
And into Milly's claws, well, he
fell. Or jumped. I don't know which.
Milly the Man-eater, her claws are hid,
but eat that boy was what she did.
A suicide. Hushed up. The bitch
still lives, with no regrets. That's her.
I could say more, but — but, well, — er ...

Word to the wise, eh, my son John?
'nough said. Now, first things first.
Your topee. Out-of-doors without that on —
and sunstroke. Yes, with that we're cursed.
Of course, the natives never wear them,
or just a cloth. But the sun don't scare 'em.
They're different from us. Remember, Jack:
we are White and they are Black.'
'Yes, sir. But — Well ...' 'Come, spit it out.'
'Well, back Home some that I met
seemed decent sorts.' 'Oh, yes, I bet
that's what they seemed. But, make no doubt,
there underneath they, every one,
of your kind heart were making fun.'

Jack Steele feels now it's time to go.
He's on the point of leaving, but —
'Just one thing more you need to know:
bowels open, lad, and mouth kept shut.
Remember: natives everywhere.
Watch p's and q's, and be aware.
You're on show, lad, from dawn till dusk.
Yes. Look at that, that mounted tusk.
I shot that beast. Do you know why?
A crowd of natives waited there
to see if I would funk the dare.
They waited just to see if I
lacked the guts to kneel and shoot.
No other course: I killed the brute.'

Outside, Jack stands, topee askew.
He needs some time for solid thought.
What Guthrie's told him's hardly new
— it's new in detail, not import,
From his earliest days at school
he knew that Britain's there to rule.
He knew, as true, that ones like one
are there to say what's to be done.
The Empire, let no foe defile.
The Union Jack, the red-marked map,
a task God gave to every chap
born within the sacred isle.
But till this moment he had not
wholly realised where he'd got.

To India. Where the schoolboy Jack
is all at once more than a man.
The Empire's weight is on my back.
Now I am my country's spokesman.
Yes, all of that and even more.
(Jack shifts, as if his shoulder's sore.)
Prestige is what I must uphold.
Without that life's just 'bought and sold'.
Now every day — it's Empire's gift —
I must live life up to that mark
whether in sun or in night's dark.
Never to know the burden lift.
He feels oppressed, a pinning weight.
Lifts hands to put his topee straight.

And what has placed the burden there?
Fifteen years of reading stories.
Tales and texts in classrooms where
they spoke of all the Empire's glories.
Kipling, held up as fixed in marble,
then Henty's With Roberts to Kabul,
a hundred yarns of derring-do,
Ballantyne, Stevenson, the whole crew.
And music, Elgar's martial thumping
(plus England's countryside evoked.
'None of your Germans,' Dad had joked.)
Accounts of loyal natives humping
in some brave explorer's wake,
striding out for Britain's sake.

Move on. Move on some months or more.
And we now see a tennis court
where Jack's in play, not quite so raw.
The Club is where this battle's fought.
The Club, the hub of British life.
For every Briton, man and wife,
it is their centre, safe, secure,
where talk's unbuttoned, sport is pure.
The tournament, the year's highlight,
is taking place as it has done
year after year since 1901.
The winner's Cup is shining bright.
'Guthrie', its last two shields proclaim.
Victory today will seal his fame.

But Jack's the one who now is playing
his Burra Sahib. The semi-final.
And to him it's most dismaying
(he'd love to hide in the urinal).
Because, thanks to his well-honed skill,
he's ended here, against his will,
on pretty sharp dilemma horns.
To lose on purpose? Or tread corns
by playing well and, most like, winning?
Knock out his boss? He thinks he could
(the fact is that he's very good)
but Guthrie Sahib, he knows, is pinning
all his hopes on this last chance.
At his back the years advance.

The Cup, or 'pot' as Guthrie dubs it,
— but Jack has glimpsed, a daunting sight,
Guthrie yearning as he rubs it —
means for him Time's speeding flight.
So (Jack thinks) should I now quit?
Lose, though make a fight of it?
Then the man who is my chief
can feel, yes, still, he is Time's thief.
But if I play as I was taught,
play up, play up and play the game,
I'll put my boss to inner shame.
No, though I know well what I ought
to do, I won't. I'll let him win.
Losing, is it such a sin?

First set, Guthrie. Score: 6-4.
The second's Jack's, a quick 6-2.
Now the decider. Ten games more,
Jack thinks. Lose six, win four. Then who
tomorrow? Yes, just Edward Carter.
He'll play the Final. I'll be a martyr.
Carter's quite good but much too flash,
the sort that F.H.R. could thrash
with one hand tied behind his back.
But Guthrie seems to lose his fire.
Several of his serves are dire.
So is he tiring, wonders Jack.
And if he is, how can I lose?
He racks his brains for some excuse.

Then Guthrie serves a double fault,
and misses next an easy hit.
But now the Umpire calls a halt.
A servant has brought out a chit.
The Umpire — it is Dr Prosser —
reads, then calls across a
puzzled Guthrie, who in turn
reads and frowns. 'No, don't adjourn,'
he's heard to say, and back he comes
to face Jack's serve, which he gets back.
He seems in better form, thinks Jack.
But, no. Again he soon succumbs
to Jack's assault. Now, here's the catch.
Ten minutes more, he's lost the match.

Yet Guthrie takes defeat with grace,
an Englishman seen at his best.
'Can't win 'em all, old chap. The race
to the strong. Now, be my guest.
A burra peg? You've earned a drink.'
Jack does not know quite what to think.
He has a sort of under-sense
that this is false. The man's too tense.
How did he come to lose the match?
And now without another word
he's gone. Off like a shot. Absurd.
Absurd. Yet where's the catch?
I thought he'd stay a bit and chat.
Why has he just gone off like that?

And then a thought: at just past noon
when at the Club all were asleep
(and those at home, this is a boon,
the midday snooze, oblivion deep)
Jack with his boss was hard at work.
'Lad,' Guthrie'd said, 'I never shirk
when duty calls, and you should not.'
(Yet Jack once saw him rub that 'pot'.)
Report came in at the daftar
an elephant had snapped its chain
(a beast in musth one must restrain),
a rumour rumbling from afar.
And Guthrie'd said, 'I hate to kill,
but if I must, well then, I will.'

Jack thought it all was bazaar gup.
But say it's true? Had Guthrie heard?
The chit that servant boy brought up?
A beast to shoot? And he deterred?
Yes, only earlier today
I learnt that killing's not his way.
That's something I can feel for, too.
It's not a thing I'd like to do.
All right, when once a beast's gone wild
you have to stop it. That's the rule.
But — this I even learnt at school,
I'd read it even as a child —
not every elephant stays mad.
The musth goes off, however bad.

A single shot, if it's done right,
four tons of life just blown out.
And — let the thought peep out to light —
it's dangerous, too. Have any doubt
of when to fire or where to aim
and then you learn: big game's no game.
A wounded beast will tread you down,
shake you to death, a sawdust clown.
No wonder Guthrie went off form
thinking of that, and how before
he'd faced that task, obeyed the law
of British grit, the White Man's norm.
While on the court, as shots were clapped,
he'd think: once more they've got me trapped.

They've got me trapped. But who those they?
The natives watching for a fall?
Or Britons braying 'British way'?
Jack shakes his head. That's not at all
what he should think. Back Home perhaps
thinking that would be no lapse,
but here beneath the Indian sun
it's one for all, and all for one.
Another drink? No. Whisky's out.
That way, he warned me, trouble lies.
A nimbu pani will suffice.
Soda and lime, and damn all doubt.
Jack sips, accepts congratulations,
and smiles away felicitations.

An hour goes by. The drink flows free.
'Another one?' 'Well, down the hatch.'
'Will Steele J beat Carter E?'
The talk is of tomorrow's match.
No word that Guthrie's not a sport,
but Jack wonders if the thought
is here and there allowed to rise.
His disappearance caused surprise.
But all the while a crisis hides.
Do not forget young Gramophone.
He's waiting there, as yet unknown.
Laugh, Jack, and joke. Your fate abides.
That other chhokra's time is near.
His hour will come. Its footfalls hear.

Editorial Reviews

""The great drawback of crime fiction of all types is its tendency to reduce itself to formulas. This applies whether it's Noir or Mayhem Parva, a private eye novel or a psychological thriller. So it's all the more exciting when a genuinely original crime novel appears. H.R.F.Keating has been doubly clever, because the originality of this novel is in form rather than content; and only as the story progresses does the reader realise that the former is subtly influencing the latter. Like Pushkin, Vikram Seth and indeed Byron, he has chosen to write a novel in verse. (His only fore-runner in the genre is Dorothy Porter, whose The Monkey's Mask is a sort of crime novel in vers libre.)
Jack the Lady Killer is set in India but not the India of Inspector Ghote. It's the Punjab in 1935. Most of the action takes place in a small British community. A lascivious widow is murdered. The District Superintendent of Police, the very pattern of an imperialist hero, is in hospital with sunstroke. The task of investigating the murder falls on young Jack Steele, fresh from his English public school and on the threshold of a career with the Imperial Police Service.
How convenient it would be if the murder could be pinned on one of the natives. Unfortunately, however, the murderer must be One of Us one of the handful of suspects who were within the precincts of the club at the time of the murder, and each of whom have secrets to hide. Even the godlike figure of the District Commissioner is not above suspicion. To make matters worse for Jack (if this is possible), an MP is about to visit the Station, bringing with him his niece, a stunningly attractive girl with a habit of asking stunningly awkwardquestions. Only Bulaki Ram, Jack's sergeant, seems able to make the occasional useful suggestion by accident, no doubt, because he's only a native.
In terms of plot, Jack the Lady Killer is a perfect whodunit in the classic mould. (If handled in prose, it could have been a long short story or, with the addition of a few subplots, a full-length novel.) On another level, it is also a coming-of-age novel: one by one, Jack's illusions crumble, not least the illusion about the insignificance of Bulaki Ram. As Jack picks his way through the murky thickets of motivation and pretence, he finds his way painfully towards maturity. On another level still, the book is a perceptive and even-handed critique of British imperialism in India.
What effect does the form have on the content? Keating uses a 14-line stanza and a tight metrical pattern. Oddly enough, the constriction of the form allows a liberation of the content. Verse encourages concision, the telling phrase or syntactical inversion that would be out of place in a prose narrative. It also permits an author to avoid some of the conventional limitations of fictional ""realism."" Moreover, the rhythm carries you forward in tandem with the narrative tension. Just another stanza, you think, and an hour later you discover you have finished the book.
It's difficult to think of another crime novelist who could have written this fascinating and unusual book. As a bonus, it has been beautifully produced by Flambard with some excellent illustrations and a sensible glossary. Highly recommended and the ideal Christmas present for those who like intelligent crime fiction.
--Andrew Taylor, author of the highly acclaimed Roth & Lydmouth Series

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