“I vomited, Kathleen.”
I shuddered. Still, if I stayed in the cabin I would be seasick too, so hastily I decided to brave the memsahibs outside. At least the air was clean on deck. As I emerged I ran into Waldo. Literally, I am afraid, for I banged smack into his chest.
“Whoa!” he roared, as if I was a mettlesome pony. “Where are you going to in such a hurry, little girl?”
“What are you doing hanging about my cabin, little man?” I retorted. “Can’t you get along for five minutes without me?”
“You’re late for luncheon.”
“I didn’t hear the bugle.”
“You need to get your ears washed then.”
I followed Waldo to the dining saloon. The room was already filled up, most of the seats at the two long tables crowded with the chattering throng. One of the most eligible bachelors on the voyage, a Mr. Charles Prinsep, who was rumored to be the younger son of a baronet, was sitting at one of the tables. He was a nice young man, with wavy brown hair, a snub nose and a toothy smile. I thought him daft but Rachel said he was a good sport and tended to blush when he was around. Clustered around him were the “Fishing Fleet.” No, not sportsmen, but well-bred young ladies shipped out to the colonies to find husbands among the British soldiers and government men who ran our Raj—our Empire in India.
The ones who failed to hook their gentlemen-fish went sadly home to England in the spring and were known as the “Returned Empties.”
I slipped into a vacant chair only to have Mrs. Spragg and the inevitable Edwin took the seats next to me. The woman could not let me alone. Thank goodness my aunt, father and friends were also at the table. The one person on ship Mrs. Spragg was scared of was Aunt Hilda.
After grace was said, menu cards were passed around the table. I do not know why they bothered with the cards, for the choice was between braised and broiled salt beef. Since we left the Cape of Good Hope in Africa, supplies of fresh food had run low. It was days since we had seen such a luxury as a fresh tomato or a green bean. It was a huge relief that we were finally nearing Bombay, due to reach the Indian city in a day or two, I was told. Apart from all else, I was truly glad that I was going to India. You see, it is the land of the sacred cow—where it is forbidden to eat beef. Personally I never want to swallow the stuff, in any shape or form, ever again.
Indeed I might even become one of those eccentrics they call “vegetarians.” I would forswear all meat—except sausages, ham and steak and kidney pudding.
Gritting my teeth I went to work on the leathery beef, which was only slightly improved by mustard. Mrs. Spragg meanwhile was rambling on and on about the “White Man’s Burden”—the duty of the English race to rule the world.
“The British are the noblest race in the world. That is why, Kathleen, your poor standards of dress and manner let down the whole Raj,” Mrs. Spragg lectured, fixing me with her gimlet eye. “You must understand, in India you are not merely a young girl, you are a representative of a race with divine rights. We have a sacred trust in India to—”
“Make money,” Aunt Hilda interrupted, loudly. “That’s the Englishwoman’s only duty. Making money is all that matters, Kit. Blast your boots if you do it in a stained bonnet.”
“Surely you cannot mean it, my dear Miss Salter,” Mrs. Spragg gasped. “You cannot mean to praise mere grubby commercial enterprise over the uplift of the natives.”
“Give me a gold brick over an ‘uplifted native’ any day of the week. Including Sunday!”
Mrs. Spragg cast a scandalized look at my aunt. But she was too frightened of her reputation, as well as her sharp tongue, to get into a fight with her. Shortly after, pudding arrived. To my dismay it was a lumpy suet concoction. I prodded it with my spoon and ate a few halfhearted mouthfuls. Much more of this food and I would be joining the Minchin in the sickroom. I threw down my spoon and pushed back my chair. Announcing that I felt a little ill, I left the table.
To my surprise Aunt Hilda joined me. As we walked on the promenade deck she seized my arm.
“Want to have a natter,” she said.
“Yes?”
“About—” she fell silent. This hesitation was not at all like my aunt.
“What is it, Aunt Hilda?” I asked gently.
“Well—look here, it’s Champlon. Do you think he’s run off with another woman?”
I was silent for a moment. As I’ve already told you, I had been thinking a great deal over the voyage. I couldn’t really believe Champlon had stolen Amelia Edwards’s ankh or been in league with the monkey and the turbaned stranger. I felt there was some link with the Spraggs’ Maharajah. We had received a wire from Oxford, apparently the fragment I’d found was definitely from the ankh, and the police were full of praise for my actions. A grateful Miss Edwards had even promised me a reward.
“Aunt, you know what I think,” I said finally. “He’s been kidnapped.”
“There’s no evidence Champlon has been kidnapped.” She paused for a moment, her eyes searching mine. “You know what Frenchmen are like. They like to flit about from girl to girl.”
“You’re hardly a girl,” I blurted. The words were out before I realized how tactless they were. “I mean—”
“Yes, yes … Nonetheless, they like to flit.”
We were passing by my cabin. Dark clouds hung low and a strong sea breeze was blowing. I shivered, suddenly chilled and at that moment I heard a crash from within. Followed by a loud shriek. Hurriedly, I flung open my door.
Miss Minchin, dressed in a lavender tea gown, was sitting bolt upright in her bunk. There was terror on her face. She was pointing with a quivering finger, blubbering incoherently. I followed the direction of her finger and saw the porthole window was hanging open. Rushing over I looked out, but there was nothing there, just the frothing waves and the sting of sea spray.
I closed the window and returning to Miss Minchin took her hand. She clutched mine hard, still babbling. I made soothing noises and gradually she calmed down.
“Gibbering!” she wailed.
“You’re not gibbering,” I murmured. “Just a bad dream.”
“Not me, idiot. It was a thing. A creature looking at me,” she said. “Right above me, Kit, I could feel its breath on my face. The most hideous thing I’ve ever seen.”
“You must have been dreaming. The window flew open and it startled you.”
“It wasn’t human! Huge teeth and hideous rubbery lips and hair all over its face. A devil.”
Hair all over its face. Not a devil. Instantly my mind flew to another conclusion. The mysterious Indian’s monkey. The barge woman had said it had a most evil face. What was it doing on board the ship? Where was it hiding? And what on earth had it wanted? We had no precious jewels! My eyes darted around the room, checking for missing things, while Aunt Hilda came in harrumphing disgustedly. Then I saw something strange. A large yellow envelope with a dirty smudge on the front lay on my rumpled counterpane. That wasn’t there before! I rushed over and tore open the envelope. There was no sheet of paper or message inside. A few fragments of rubbish fell out. Fragrant seeds, a shiny feather, some coarse yellow hair and a withered petal. Nothing at all, just a strange collection of oddments.
Aunt Hilda however appeared to go berserk. She rushed toward me and clasped me so tight to her ample bosom I could hardly breathe.
“No, leave Kit alone,” she yelped to some imaginary enemy.
“Let go of me,” I puffed.
“Danger! The Shadow of Death!”
“Pardon?” I asked bewildered, casting a worried look at the Minchin. She was already scared half out of her wits. She didn’t need my aunt to frighten her more.
“Don’t you know anything, Kit? This is an Indian Object Letter. These are symbols. Warning you of danger.”
“How do you mean?”
“Object letters are an ancient and secretive language. These letters have passed among Indians for many years, often appearing when there is trouble ahead.” She leaned over and peered at
the jumble lying on my bed more closely. “The lion hair stands for Kali, Hindu goddess of death. You must have seen pictures. She wears a necklace of human arms and a belt of skulls.”
A goddess of death festooned with skulls. I was quiet for a moment, for it was a frightening image.
“This is a peacock’s feather,” Aunt Hilda continued, picking up the beautiful thing, blue in the center, fanning out in a shimmer of yellow and green. “A symbol of India, an ancient, beautiful bird but proud and fierce.” She pointed at the withered flower. “This is the flower of the dhak, a plant with blood-red flowers that grows wild all over northern India. It can mean several things but taken together with a symbol of Kali or death it means danger.”
I shushed my aunt hurriedly, for she was practically shouting, and tried to usher her outside. Standing in the doorway, she murmured ominously:
“This letter is a warning, Kit. Something very bad will happen to you if you enter India.”
“Nonsense,” I muttered, though a knot of anxiety was tightening in my throat.
“Your life is in danger.”
“All superstition.”
“It’s my fault. I was selfish to bring you with me.”
“I’m not scared,” I lied, as Miss Minchin let out a horrible wail. Judging by her ghostly face, she had overheard the whole conversation. Hurriedly, I slammed the cabin door on my aunt, cutting out her moaning.
It was far too late for second or third thoughts. I was going to India and it would take more than the threat of death to stop me.
Chapter Seven
Back in our cabin, I turned my attention to Miss Minchin. It took all my tact and patience—all right these aren’t my strong points—to calm her. Soothing words, camomile compresses, smelling salts … none of these remedies were enough to bring my governess to her senses. She only let me leave on the condition that Rachel would replace me by her bedside. She also consented, feebly, to a cup of beef tea.
Being nice to Miss Minchin was hard work.
It was with great relief that I joined my aunt on the promenade deck, where she was leaning against the rails gazing at our ship’s great red and white funnel pumping out steam. I had my work cut out. First I had to calm her down, then fill her in on my suspicions. Most important, I needed her assistance in my plan. This object-letter business had made it urgent. The monkey must have been behind the so called death threat. You see I knew all the first-class passengers. There was no one like Champlon, the Indian Maharajah/trickster or the monkey among them. We needed to get down and search the lower decks thoroughly. Only my aunt possessed that sort of authority with the ship’s crew.
At first Aunt Hilda was dubious about my plan. She was still inclined to cling to her notion that Champlon had deserted her. But the object letter and the powerful message of danger it sent was a point in my favor. Finally, Aunt Hilda agreed to let me have my way.
So, ten minutes later, after I had done my duty in ordering the beef tea, I followed my aunt down the entrance from the lower deck to the steerage passengers’ accommodation. In front of us walked a bewildered steward. This was probably the only time first-class passengers had demanded to inspect living conditions below deck. Though my aunt had told him we were searching for a missing brooch, the steward was clearly nonplussed.
As we followed him to the single men’s quarters, I understood why he was so nervous. The place was fetid, thick with smoke, sweat, the smell of rancid meat and dirty underclothes. Men in vests lounged on the berths that were stacked like bookshelves under the low ceiling. Some were squatting on the floor, gambling, others were smoking pipes or simply lying down, staring at nothing in particular.
Compared with Aunt Hilda’s luxurious first-class state room, I had thought my cabin was overcrowded, but this was a new definition of wretchedness. The Himalaya could take 1,500 steerage passengers, most of whom were crowded in here. Not that the men seemed glum. In fact, as my aunt and I entered, a great cacophony of hooting began. One hugely muscled fellow, lounging on his berth in underclothes, had the nerve to whistle at my aunt. The steward quieted him. My aunt, of course, can deal with any embarrassment, but I fancy she was a little flushed. Meanwhile, I concentrated on paying attention to every man, squeezed sometimes two or three to a berth. Champlon might be in disguise. There were plenty of Indians and all sorts of folk of every race. But no Gaston Champlon. I had so hoped to find the Frenchman hiding in the men’s berths! We moved to the family berths and then on to the single-women quarters. The women were still eating lunch, and I must say their food looked even more unappetising than ours.
Finally, when we had even ransacked the latrines, I was forced to admit defeat. The stench was overpowering. There were too many Indians below deck to find our suspect. It was like looking for an Englishman in London. Sick at heart, we climbed up to the promenade deck.
“Oh my sainted aunt!” Aunt Hilda exclaimed. “What’s going on?”
Sailors were running about hollering, ladies were fainting, gentleman were rushing to the sides of the boat. The promenade deck was lurching in the wind and billowing white sails blocked my view. A red and yellow diagonally divided signal flag was fluttering. In the distance a cannon exploded. The steward cursed and broke into a run. Aunt Hilda saw the flag and spat out an oath.
“MAN OVERBOARD!” a sailor shouted.
“It’s a lady, you lummox,” another seaman yelled.
I rushed over to the rails but someone elbowed me out of the way. It was a gentleman who had thrown off his jacket. Gripping a rope, tied at one end to a life preserver and at the other to the mast, he jumped overboard. He disappeared into the churning waves, as I realized that it was the Fishing Fleet’s favorite, Charlie Prinsep.
That meant the woman must be one of those who gushed around Prinsep in the salon.
Hanging over the rails I watched Mr. Prinsep descend into the waves on the rope. I could see no sign of a body, in the churning of froth and waves. Waldo and Isaac had joined me in the watch.
“He sure is brave,” murmured Waldo, who had appeared.
Mr. Prinsep was thrashing around in the sea, swimming in ever wider circles, while one hand clung to the life preserver. We spurred him on with our shouts of encouragement, but increasingly I felt that his task was hopeless. All we could see was a group of seagulls skimming the spray, scything in and out of the water. Surely the lady, whoever she was, would have drowned by now.
I felt a hand gripping my arm. It was Rachel, her eyes wide with terror.
“Where’s Miss Minchin?” She blurted.
“I don’t know.”
“She’s not in the cabin. Kit, this isn’t right. She hasn’t left her bunk for days.”
“Maybe—” I began but Rachel cut me off.
“Oh, Kit, she’s been sad ever since—” Rachel stopped dead.
Her words bludgeoned me in the head. For a moment I just gaped at her.
Thing is, I knew Rachel was right. I knew Miss Minchin’s spirits had never recovered from the forged love note. I shook off my friend’s hand. For one lunatic moment, I thought of jumping into the waves. But I was halted by a volley of shouts. Down below Prinsep was signaling for the rope to be hoisted. How could I ever forgive myself? Prinsep was being winched up, dripping sea slime. He had done his best. It just wasn’t good enough. Tired and exhausted, he had given up the rescue attempt.
Which meant I might be responsible for something truly awful. It was meant as a joke, I told myself. But I felt so heavy I could scarcely stand up. I watched a soggy Prinsep rise on the rope. Attached to him was a bundle, a shapeless, dripping pile of clothes. My heart jerked suddenly. A skein of hair hung down from the sodden mess, or was it seaweed? Strong hands pulled up the rope and Mr. Prinsep and the bundle were laid on the deck. There was too much of a press in front of me. I caught a glimpse of lavender gown and dripping hair. Then the human throng edged me out. Angrily I pushed my way through, using elbows and fists, anything.
Mr. Prinsep was bending o
ver a lady, whose hair was fanned out on the deck. His mouth covered her lips. He jerked upward and a spray of water spurted from his mouth.
The lady—Miss Minchin—was corpse still. Her features had a bleary look, as if they were covered with gauze.
Mr. Prinsep bent over her again, desperately giving her the kiss of life. But to the circle of onlookers it was quite clear that his attempts were futile. Her skin was waxy, mottled with bluish veins. Like the underbelly of a dead fish. Again the gallant man surfaced, to spit out water, and again bent over her, striving to will her to life. I knelt down at her side, urging her on. My fingers brushed her hand, which was lying limp on the deck. It was clammy, sea-water cold.
All was lost. The seconds were ticking on and she hadn’t stirred, hadn’t given any sign of life.
Then, quite miraculously, Celestina Minchin opened her eyes.
“Thank—” I began, then fell silent, for Miss Minchin was not looking at me.
“You saved my life,” she murmured, gazing deep into Mr. Prinsep’s eyes.
Mr. Prinsep blushed red as a beetroot. “Always wanted to do it,” he sputtered.
“Do what?” I butted in, interested.
“Rescue a damsel in distress.”
A blond, whom I had seen hanging on Mr. Prinsep’s arm at every dance, snorted, her nostrils flaring like a thoroughbred stallion. Then a man with a black bag pushed his way to the front, ordering everyone away. The doctor had finally arrived.
“Clear the decks,” he ordered.
The drama was over. Reluctantly the crowd drifted away, while Miss Minchin was loaded on to a stretcher. Only my aunt, my friends and Mr. Prinsep, were left. Before she was taken away Miss Minchin opened her eyes. This time she was looking at me.
“I’m so sorry,” I murmured. “I’m sorry about not sending Rachel to you, sorry about everything.” I paused a moment, unsure and went on, “You shouldn’t have done it.”
“Done what, Kathleen?”
“Er … jump.”
“I didn’t jump,” she snapped. ‘I was frightened in that cabin. Frightened that evil thing would come back. So I came out to the prom deck. I leaned over the rails for a breath of air, the ship lurched and before I knew my head was under water.
The Maharajah's Monkey Page 5