Alice Perrin, "Caulfield's Crime" (1901) (Short Story)
Tags: Hunting/ shikar, Ghostly reincarnation, Racism, Illness (rabies/hydrophobia)
Caulfield’s Crime
Caulfield was a sulky, bad-tempered individual who made no friends and was deservedly unpopular, but he had the reputation of being the finest shot in the Punjab, and of possessing a knowledge of sporting matters that was almost superhuman. He was an extremely jealous shot, and hardly ever invited a companion to join him on his shooting trips, so it may be understood that I was keenly alive to the honour conferred on me when he suddenly asked me to go out for three days’ small game shooting with him.
“I know a string of jheels [ponds],” he said, “about thirty miles from here, where the duck and snipe must swarm. I marked the place down when I was out last month, and I’ve made arrangements to go there next Friday morning. You can come, too, if you like.”
I readily accepted the ungracious invitation, though I could hardly account for it, knowing his solitary ways, except that he probably thought that I was unlikely to assert myself, being but a youngster, and also he knew me better than he did most people, for our houses were next door, and I often strolled over to examine his enormous collection of skins and horns and other sporting trophies.
I bragged about the coming expedition in the club that evening, and was well snubbed by two or three men who would have given anything to know the whereabouts of Caulfield’s string of jheels, and who spitefully warned me to be careful that Caulfield did not end by shooting me.
“I believe he’d kill any chap who annoyed him,” said one of them, looking round to make sure that Caulfield was not at hand. “I never met such a nasty-tempered fellow, I believe he’s mad. But he can shoot, and what he doesn’t know about game isn’t worth knowing.”
Caulfield and I rode out the thirty miles early on the Friday morning, having sent our camp on ahead the previous night. We found our tents pitched in the scanty shade of some stunted dâk jungle trees with thick, dry bark, flat, shapeless leaves, that clattered together when stirred by the wind, and wicked-looking red blossoms. It was not a cheerful spot, and the soil was largely mixed with salt which had worked its way in white patches to the surface, and only encouraged the growth of the rankest of grass.
Before us stretched a dreary outlook of shallow lake and swampy ground, broken by dark patches of reeds and little bushy islands, while on the left a miserable mud village overlooked the water. The sun had barely cleared away the thick, heavy mist, which was still slowly rising here and there, and the jheel birds were wading majestically in search of their breakfast of small fish, and uttering harsh, discordant cries.
To my astonishment, Caulfield seemed a changed man. He was in excellent spirits, his eyes were bright, and the sullen frown had gone from his forehead.
“Isn’t it a lovely spot?” he said, laughing and rubbing his hands. “Beyond that village the snipe ought to rise in thousands from the rice fields. We sha’n’t be able to shoot it all in three days, worse luck, but we’ll keep it dark, and come again. Let’s have breakfast. I don’t want to lose any time.”
Half an hour later we started, our guns over our shoulders, and a couple of servants behind us carrying the luncheon and cartridge bags. My spirits rose with Caulfield’s, for I felt we had the certainty of an excellent day’s sport before us.
But the birds were unaccountably wild and few and far between, and luck seemed dead against us. “Some brutes” had evidently been there before us and harried the birds, was Caulfield’s opinion, delivered with disappointed rage, and after tramping and wading all day, we returned, weary and crestfallen, with only a few couple of snipe and half a dozen teal between us. Caulfield was so angry he could hardly eat any dinner, and afterwards sat cursing his luck and the culprits who had forestalled us, till we could neither of us keep awake any longer.
The next morning we took a different route from the previous day, but with no better result. On and on, and round and round we tramped, with only an occasional shot here and there, and at last, long after midday, we sat wearily down to eat our luncheon. I was ravenously hungry, and greedily devoured my share of the provisions, but Caulfield hardly touched a mouthful, and only sat moodily examining his gun, and taking long pulls from his whisky flask. We were seated on the roots of a large tamarind tree, close to the village, and the place had a dreary, depressing appearance. The yellow mud walls were ruined and crumbling, and the inhabitants seemed scanty and poverty-stricken. Two ragged old women were squatting a short distance off, watching us with dim, apathetic eyes, and a few naked children were playing near them, while some bigger boys were driving two or three lean buffaloes towards the water.
Presently another figure came in sight—a fakir, or mendicant priest, as was evident by the tawny masses of wool woven amongst his own black locks and hanging in ropes below his shoulders, the ashes smeared over the almost naked body, and the hollow gourd for alms which he held in his hand. The man’s face was long and thin, and his pointed teeth glistened in the sunlight as he demanded money in a dismal monotone. Caulfield flung a pebble at him and told him roughly to be off, with the result that the man slowly disappeared behind a clump of tall, feathery grass.
“Did you notice that brute’s face?” said Caulfield as we rose to start again. “He must have been a pariah dog in a former existence. He was exactly like one!”
“Or a jackal perhaps,” I answered carelessly. “He looked more like a wild beast.”
Then we walked on, skirting the village and plunging into the damp, soft rice fields. We put up a wisp of snipe, which we followed till we had shot them nearly all, and then, to our joy, we heard a rush of wings overhead, and a lot of duck went down into the corner of a jheel in front of us.
“We’ve got ’em!” said Caulfield, and we hurried on till we were almost within shot of the birds, and could hear them calling to each other in their fancied security. But suddenly they rose again in wild confusion, and with loud cries of alarm were out of range in a second. Caulfield swore, and so did I, and our rage was increased tenfold when the disturber of the birds appeared in sight, and proved to be the fakir who had paid us a visit at luncheon-time. Caulfield shook his fist at the man and abused him freely in Hindustani, but without moving a muscle of his dog-like face the fakir passed us and continued on his way.
Words could not describe Caulfield’s vexation.
“They were pin-tail, all of them,” he said, “and the first decent chance we’ve had since we came out. To think of that beastly fakir spoiling the whole show, and I don’t suppose he had the least idea what he had done.”
“Probably not,” I replied, “unless there was some spite in it because you threw a stone at him that time.”
“Well, come along,” said Caulfield, with resignation, “we must make haste as it will be dark soon, and I want to try a place over by those palms before we knock off. We may as well let the servants go back as they’ve had a hard day. Have you got some cartridges in your pocket?”
“Yes, plenty,” I answered, and after despatching the two men back to the camp with what little game we had got, we walked on in silence.
The sun was sinking in a red ball and the air was heavy with damp, as the white mist stole slowly over the still, cold jheels. Far overhead came the first faint cackle of the wild geese returning home for the night, and presently as we approached the clump of palms we saw more water glistening between the rough stems, and on it, to our delight, a multitude of duck and teal.
But the next moment there was a whir-r-r of wings like the rumble of thunder, and a dense mass of birds flew straight into the air and wheeled bodily away, while the sharp, cold atmosphere resounded with their startled cries. Caulfield said nothing, but he set his jaw and walked rapidly forward, while I followed. We skirted the group of palms, and on the other side we came upon our friend the fakir, who had again succeeded in spoiling our sport. The long, lanky figure was drawn to its full height, the white eyeballs and jagged teeth caught the red glint of the setting sun, and he waved his hand triumphantly in the direction of the vanishing cloud of birds.
Then there came the loud report of a gun, and the next thing I saw was a quivering body on the ground, and wild eyes staring open in the agony of death. Caulfield had shot the fakir, and now he stood looking down at what he had done, while I knelt beside the body and tried hopelessly to persuade myself that life was not extinct. When I got up we gazed at each other for a moment in silence.
“What are we to do?” I asked presently.
“Well, you know what it means,” Caulfield said in a queer, hard voice. “Killing a native is no joke in these days, and I should come out of it pretty badly.”
I glanced at the body in horror. The face was rigid, and seemed more beast-like than ever. I looked at Caulfield again before I spoke, hesitatingly.
“Of course the whole thing was unpremeditated—an accident.”
“No, it wasn’t,” he said defiantly. “I meant to shoot the brute, and it served him right. And you can’t say anything else if it comes out. But I don’t see why anyone should know about it but ourselves.”
“It’s a nasty business,” I said, my heart sinking at the suggestion of concealment.
“It will be nastier still if we don’t keep it dark, and you won’t like having to give me away, you know. Either we must bury the thing here and say nothing about it, or else we must take it back to the station and stand the devil’s own fuss. Probably I shall be kicked out of the service.”
“Of course I’ll stand by you,” I said with an effort, “but we can’t do anything this minute. We’d better hide it in that long grass and come back after dinner. We must have something to dig with.”
Caulfield agreed sullenly, and between us we pushed the body in amongst the thick, coarse grass, which completely concealed it, and then made our way back to the camp. We ordered dinner and pretended to eat it, after which we sat for half an hour smoking, until the plates were cleared away and the servants had left the tent. Then I put my hunting-knife into my pocket, and Caulfield picked up a kitchen chopper that his bearer had left lying on the floor, after hammering a stiff joint of a camp chair, and we quitted the tent casually as though intending to have a stroll in the moonlight, which was almost as bright as day. We walked slowly at first, gradually increasing our pace as we left the camp behind us, and Caulfield never spoke a word until we came close to the tall grass that hid the fakir’s body. Then he suddenly clutched my arm.
“God in heaven!” he whispered, pointing ahead, “What is that?”
I saw the grass moving, and heard a scraping sound that made my heart stand still. We moved forward in desperation and parted the grass with our hands. A large jackal was lying on the fakir’s body, grinning and snarling at being disturbed over his hideous meal.
“Drive it away,” said Caulfield, hoarsely. But the brute refused to move, and as it lay there showing its teeth, its face reminded me horribly of the wretched man dead beneath its feet. I turned sick and faint, so Caulfield shouted and shook the grass and threw clods of soil at the animal, which rose at last and slunk slowly away. It was an unusually large jackal, more like a wolf, and had lost one of its ears. The coat was rough and mangy and thickly sprinkled with grey.
For more than an hour we worked desperately with the chopper and hunting-knife, being greatly aided in our task by a rift in the ground where the soil had been softened by water running from the jheel, and finally we stood up with the sweat pouring from our faces, and stamped down the earth which now covered all traces of Caulfield’s crime. We had filled the grave with some large stones that were lying about (remnants of some ancient temple, long ago deserted and forgotten), thus feeling secure that it could not easily be disturbed by animals.
The next morning we returned to the station, and Caulfield shut himself up more than ever. He entirely dropped his shooting, which before had been his one pleasure, and the only person he ever spoke to, unofficially, was myself.
The end of April came with its plague of insects and scorching winds. The hours grew long and weary with the heat, and dust storms howled and swirled over the station, bringing perhaps a few tantalising drops of rain, or more often leaving the air thick with a copper-coloured haze.
One night when it was too hot to sleep, Caulfield suddenly appeared in my verandah and asked me to let him stay the night in my bungalow.
“I know I’m an ass,” he said in awkward apology, “but I can’t stay by myself. I get all sorts of beastly ideas.”
I asked no questions, but gave him a cheroot and tried to cheer him up, telling him scraps of gossip, and encouraging him to talk, when a sound outside made us both start. It proved to be only the weird, plaintive cry of a jackal, but Caulfield sprang to his feet, shaking all over.
“There it is again!” he exclaimed. “It has followed me over here. Listen!” turning his haggard, sleepless eyes on me. “Every night that brute comes and howls round my house, and I tell you, on my oath, it’s the same jackal we saw eating the poor devil I shot.”
“Nonsense, my dear chap,” I said, pushing him back into the chair, “you must have got fever. Jackals come and howl round my house all night. That’s nothing.”
“Look here,” said Caulfield, very calmly, “I have no more fever than you have, and if you imagine I am delirious you are mistaken.” He lowered his voice. “I looked out one night and saw the brute. It had only one ear!”
In spite of my own common sense and the certainty that Caulfield was not himself, my blood ran cold, and after I had succeeded in quieting him and he had dropped off to sleep on the couch, I sat in my long chair for hours, going over in my mind every detail of that horrible night in the jungle.
Several times after this Caulfield came to me and repeated the same tale. He swore he was being haunted by the jackal we had driven away from the fakir’s body, and finally took it into his head that the spirit of the murdered man had entered the animal and was bent on obtaining vengeance.
Then he suddenly ceased coming over to me, and when I went to see him he would hardly speak, and only seemed anxious to get rid of me. I urged him to take leave or see a doctor, but he angrily refused to do either, and said he wished I would keep away from him altogether. So I left him alone for a couple of days, but on the third evening my conscience pricked me for having neglected him, and I was preparing to go over to his bungalow, when his bearer rushed in with a face of terror and besought me to come without delay. He said he feared his master was dying, and he had already sent for the doctor. The latter arrived in Caulfield’s verandah simultaneously with myself, and together we entered the sick man’s room. Caulfield was lying unconscious on his bed.
“He had a sort of fit, sahib,” said the frightened bearer, and proceeded to explain how his master had behaved.
The doctor bent over the bed.
“Do you happen to know if he had been bitten by a dog lately?” he asked, looking up at me.
“Not to my knowledge,” I answered, while the faint wail of a jackal out across the plain struck a chill to my heart.
For twenty-four hours we stayed with Caulfield, watching the terrible struggles we were powerless to relieve, and which lasted till the end came. He was never able to speak after the first paroxysm, which had occurred before we arrived, so we could not learn from him whether he had been bitten or not, neither could the doctor discover any scar on his body which might have been made by the teeth of an animal. Yet there was no shadow of doubt that Caulfield’s death was due to hydrophobia.
As we stood in the next room when all was over, drinking the dead man’s whisky and soda, which we badly needed, we questioned the bearer closely, but he could tell us little or nothing. His master, he said, did not keep dogs, nor had the bearer ever heard of his having been bitten by one; but there had been a mad jackal about the place nearly three weeks ago which his master had tried to shoot but failed.
“It couldn’t have been that,” said the doctor; “he would have come to me if he had been bitten by a jackal.”
“No,” I answered mechanically, “it could not have been that.” And I went into the bedroom to take a last look at poor Caulfield’s thin, white face with its ghastly, hunted expression, for there was now nothing more that I could do for him.
Then I picked up a lantern and stepped out into the dark verandah, intending to go home. As I did so, something came silently round the corner of the house and stood in my path. I raised my lantern and caught a glimpse of a mass of grey fur, two fiery yellow eyes, and bared, glistening teeth. It was only a stray jackal, and I struck at it with my stick, but instead of running away it slipped past me and entered Caulfield’s room. The light fell on the animal’s head, and I saw that it had only one ear.
In a frenzy I rushed back into the house calling for the doctor and servants.
“I saw a jackal come in here,” I said, searching round the bedroom, “hunt it out at once.”
Every nook and corner was examined, but no jackal was found.
“Go home to bed, my boy, and keep quiet till I come and see you in the morning,” said the doctor, looking at me keenly. “This business has shaken your nerves, and your imagination is beginning to play you tricks. Goodnight.”
“Goodnight,” I answered, and went slowly back to my bungalow, trying to persuade myself that he was right.