“It would never occur to me to accuse you of this or anything else,” said the Doctor quietly.

“What? What are you saying? No, of course you wouldn’t accuse me of such things. Why should you? But tell me, d’you believe in God, McNab?”

“Aye, of course, Mr Hopkins.”

“I wondered because I noticed that you do not attend the Sacrament. No, please don’t think that I mean to pry into your beliefs. I was merely curious because I have here a book of my. wife’s … I found it the other evening … I suppose she left it purposely by my bedside. It’s Keble’s The Christian Year, a series of poems on religious themes, perhaps you know it… Here, let me read you some lines … Let me see, this will do:

He paused and stared interrogatively at McNab, who yet again made no reply. Nor had he any idea what it was that he was supposed to reply to.

“I have always considered myself to believe in God,” pursued the Collector after a moment, his dark-ringed eyes searching McNab’s face “but I find such enthusiasm offends me. Evidently there are those who believe in Him in a way quite different from mine. And yet, perhaps they are right?”

“It’s only possible for a man to believe in his own way, Mr Hopkins. Surely nothing more can be asked of him. So it seems to me, at any rate.”

“Splendid, McNab. What a fine philosopher you are, to be sure. ‘In his own way’, you say. Precisely. And now I shall let you return to your duties.” And while he escorted McNab towards the door he laughed as if he were in the best of spirits.

At the door, however, there was a moment of confusion for as McNab approached it, it opened to admit the very brood of children whom he had seen earlier. Now scrubbed and combed, these children had been marshalled by their ayah in the corridor outside to be presented to their father while he took his tea. The Collector reached out his arms to the youngest of them, Henrietta, aged five, but she shrank back into the ayah’s skirts. As he took his leave, McNab had to pretend not to have noticed this small incident.

Everything had remained quiet in Krishnapur as the news of Meerut had spread, but there had been a number of small signs of unrest, nevertheless. While the Collector was discussing with the Magistrate whether the ladies should be brought into the safety of the Residency a message from Captainganj arrived to say that General Jackson would be calling later to discuss a cricket match that was due to take place between the Captainganj officers and the civilian officials. This message was brought by a havildar who had ridden ahead of the General and who also brought a more ominous piece of news: fires had broken out in the native lines the previous evening.

“The cricket match may be only a stratagem, a means of not arousing suspicion.”

The Magistrate made no reply and the Collector wished that for once he would lower that sardonically raised eyebrow.

“I hope the old fellow hasn’t begun to go at last.”

Presently a thud of hooves alerted the two men to the General’s arrival and they moved to the window to watch. General Jackson was escorted by half a dozen native cavalrymen, known as sowars, who had dismounted and were now helping him to the ground. As one might have expected in an Army where promotion strictly attended seniority, the General was an elderly man, well over seventy. Moreover, he was portly and small in stature so he could no longer leap in and out of the saddle as had once been his custom; getting him in and out of the saddle these days was no easy task. Distributed on each side of the General’s horse, the sowars took a firm grip of his breeches and lifted him into the air, his legs kicking petulantly to free his boots from the stirrups. Once he had been lifted clear the horse was led forward and he was lowered to the ground. As he advanced stiffly towards the portico both men noticed with foreboding that instead of a walking stick the General was carrying a cricket bat. Knowing that his memory was no longer quite what it once had been, the General frequently carried some object as an aide-mémoire; thus, if he had come to discuss horses he might carry a ridingcrop, if the topic was gunnery he might juggle a couple of musket balls in his pocket.

“There was a new rumour in the bazaar this morning,” said the Magistrate as the General disappeared from view. “They say that because so many British were killed in the Crimea there’s nobody left in England for the memsahibs to marry. And so they’re going to be brought out here and forcibly married to the native landowners. Their children and the lands they own will thus become Christian.”

The Collector frowned. “Let us pray that the General is no longer as sanguine as he was before Meerut.”

As he finished speaking the General was announced and shown into the library where the Collector and the Magistrate were awaiting him. He flourished the cricket bat cheerfully as he stepped forward, saying: “Now Hopkins, about this cricket match. In my view it had better wait till after the monsoon … It’s much too hot as it is. What d’you think? I know your fellows want their revenge but they’ll just have to wait …”

The Magistrate could tell by the expression of distress that appeared fleetingly between the Collector’s side-whiskers that they were both thinking the same thing: the General really had come to discuss a cricket match.

“Just at the moment, General, we’re too concerned about the fires last night to think about cricket.”

“Fires?”

“The fires in the native lines at Captainganj last night. We fear that they may be a sign of an impending outbreak.”

“Ah yes, I know the ones you mean,” said the General cautiously. “But you mustn’t let that worry you … The work of some malcontent.”

“But General, in the light of Meerut …” The Collector wanted to discuss the prospect of disarming the native regiments. Even now this plan would be risky, he felt, but soon it would become impossible.

But the General reacted to this proposal, for which he could see no earthly reason, first with astonishment, then with scorn and indignation. He refused to accept that the fires indicated disaffection among the sepoys and said so, testily … thinking, however, that Hopkins and Willoughby could hardly be blamed, in a way, because they were civilians and, like all civilians, spent their time either in pettifogging or in “croaking” … Now here they were, decent fellows in many ways, croaking like ravens.

“Why should the sepoys attack their own billets if they were bent on mutiny?” he demanded. “They’d have set fire to the British bungalows if that’s what they were up to. As for Meerut, that’s a demmed long way from Captainganj, if you’ll forgive m’language. Special circumstances, too, shouldn’t be surprised. Can’t worry here what happens in China! Now look here, Hopkins, provided you fellows here in Krishnapur remain as usual, showing no sign of fear, everything will be airight … But it’ll be the devil’s own job for us to control our men at Captainganj if you start panickin’ here and diggin’ mud walls …”

On his way to the Residency he had cast a contemptuous eye on the Collector’s fortifications. “Raise extra police with Mohammedan recruits, if you like. They’re more reliable than Hindus or native Christians, but don’t start a panic.”

The Collector flushed, stung by the General’s scornful reference to “mud walls”; after a moment’s hesitation he asked: “How many English troops have you at Captainganj apart from officers of native regiments?”