“All I wanted was a breath of fresh air and suddenly I was drowning!”
Chapter Eight
“We really couldn’t accept, Mr. Prinsep,” Miss Minchin twittered. “It’s quite impossible.”
The damsel who had lain in a soggy bundle on the deck was gone. She had transformed into this fluttering figure, gazing wide-eyed at Mr. Prinsep, as she organized the removal of our luggage. Though she was refusing something, her eyes signaled she badly wanted to accept.
“We couldn’t impose on you, Mr. Prinsep.”
“Oh I say,” protested her savior, “call me Charlie.”
“We just couldn’t,” she persisted.
“Least I can do. Hospitality to strangers. All good folk mucking together in the Empire and all that.”
“What’s this?” my aunt inquired, bustling up behind us all as we stood on deck, awaiting the coolies who would unload our luggage on to the docks. For you see, we had arrived at Bombay! The gateway to India and a whole new continent of adventure.
“Mr. Prinsep … Charles … is so generous,” Miss Minchin replied. “He has offered to put us up. He is engaged as tutor to the young Maharajah of Baroda and he has a whole lodge in the palace grounds at his disposal.” I hadn’t seen so much pretty color in her face for the whole voyage. “Of course I’ve told him it is quite impossible for us to accept.”
“Providential. We’re heading to Baroda anyway. Save on hotel bills,” Aunt Hilda announced. “Has the Maharajah sent his carriage for you?”
“Er yes, I believe I’ve a two-horse … tikka gharry,” Prinsep replied, pronouncing the words unsurely. “His Highness has also been so good as to send me the Royal Carriage on the Great Indian Peninsular Railway. The very latest word in modern colonial travel.”
“Splendid.” Turning round, Aunt Hilda shouted for a coolie to convey our boxes to Mr. Prinsep’s carriage and so the thing was done. Poor Mr. Prinsep. He had wanted his damsel in distress. Well, he had got her. He’d also got Aunt Hilda, Father, myself, Rachel, Isaac and Waldo. Rather more than he’d bargained for. From our point of view the offer was providential, for the archaeological treasure my father was interested in had been unearthed in the grounds of the Maharajah’s palace.
“The heat, Kit. I don’t know how I am to stand it.” Father appeared, looking even woollier than usual. I took his hand reassuringly, than quickly released it—too damp and sweaty.
“You could take that off,” I said, indicating his tweed jacket.
“Really?” he asked surprised.
Soon the stewards were ushering us off the ship. What an explosion of color, noise and smells greet us. Swarming coolies and crying babies. Friends and relations of the passengers waiting on the docks, penned behind bars like cattle. There was no hiding from the sun, it bathed everything in white, fierce heat. My clothes were clinging to me with perspiration and a fly had settled on my face. Swooping in and out of the crowd, with a flutter of ebony wingbeats, were a flock of carrion crows. Their harsh caws mingled with the babble, pressing confusion on us from every side.
Odd and unnerving though this was, I was exhilarated. Of course, I had been to Egypt, but this was an utterly different land! India—this vast, teeming, spicy continent! A fever of excitement coursed through my veins. My friends felt it too, even Rachel. Our senses quickened, our minds were alert. Only father stared round with bewildered eyes, clearly more at home in the library. I would have to take care of him in this strange continent. My first task, though, was to find Champlon and his Indian.
All around us on the docks were clumps of travelers, saying emotional goodbyes to the ship-board friends. My way was blocked by Mrs. Spragg who was saying a prolonged farewell to at least a dozen bosom friends. Her cambric handkerchief fluttered at her eyes, tears flowed down her plump cheeks, but finally she moved aside and I saw something so strange I stopped dead in my tracks.
White-jacketed stewards had cleared a wide path through the crowd of passengers. A special ramp had been laid from the ship to the dock. Now as we watched, more sailors came and formed a human shield, blocking any hope of getting beyond their lines. At the end of the ramp waited a tikka-gharry with darkened windows. Before my amazed eyes two wheezing figures in wheelchairs, bundled in layers of blankets despite the heat, were pushed down the ramp. Following them was a hobbling individual, whose face was so bandaged up with linen that he looked like a walking mummy. Last of all came an Indian. A splendid figure dressed in a gold-and-white footman’s costume.
I had just a moment to study the Indian. He had a sallow face with a proud beak of a nose and pop eyes set in shadowed sockets. His mouth, curved now in a sneer as he glanced neither left nor right, was full and sensual. Just a glimpse was enough to convince me that here was a man of deep selfishness, one who put his own pleasures above all else. This was not the face of a servant.
On his shoulder perched a small, gibbering thing. Its face was trimmed by a ruff of white fur. Its eyes, black points in flaring yellow, peered left and right with wicked intent.
The monkey!
It looked straight at me and I saw that in the center of those beady pupils there was a pinpoint of white light. I could have sworn that the monkey was laughing at me. No, worse, it was looking down on me.
“Who are they?” I burbled to my aunt, clutching at her sleeve. “Where did those people come from?”
“I don’t know. Perhaps they were in the sick bay.”
The sick bay! I had never thought of that. I’d foolishly reckoned I’d known all the first-class passengers aboard ship. I’d never imagined the people I was looking for could be hiding among the diseased. That man with the swaddled head was passing me by now, so close that if I could have got past the naval security cordon, I could have ripped off his bandages. A waft of scent hit me in the nose. A sickly mixture of jasmine and musk that was all too familiar. Champlon claimed it was cologne-water for use after shaving, but anyone else would call it by another name.
Perfume.
The turbaned Indian was walking right by me. He turned his head and gave me a sideways look. I believe he too was laughing at me. Then he was gone and the passengers in wheelchairs were being helped into the tikka-gharry.
Aunt Hilda had also smelt Champlon’s perfume, for suddenly her expression changed. A stillness came over her face and she raised her nose to the air and sniffed. She looked, for all the world, like a hound scenting a fox.
“Champlon,” I gasped.
“The cad!”
We acted at once; surging through the cordon of sailors guarding the “sick passengers,” as my friends and father gaped in astonishment. We caught the sailors off guard. I got through and ran toward the tikka-gharry but a sailor had caught hold of my aunt. The doors, black-painted like the rest of the carriage, were closing. My prey was safely inside, but I wasn’t finished. I grasped the door handle and wrenched it open. I had a fleeting glimpse of astonished faces, then the Indian raised his cane and slashed me viciously. Just in time I raised my hands, which took the brunt of the blow.
“Ouch!” I yelled, clutching my throbbing hand.
“To Bori Bunder,” the Indian shouted at the driver. The brute slammed the door of the carriage in my face. With a flurry of whips and wheels it was off.
“Stop!” I yelled, but a sailor-guard had caught up with me and was grasping me roughly by the arm.
“What you playing at?” he shouted. “Are you a lunatic?”
“I thought I saw a friend,” I mumbled.
“No friends of the likes of you. Them’s very important passengers. You’re lucky I’m not arresting you for creating a nuisance. Off with you now. Go on, get lost!”
I sped away, back to my friends. Whoever they were, the mysterious strangers clearly had a lot of power, for the traffic had been cleared for their carriage. Bullock carts, rickshaws, tikka-gharries, tongas—all sorts of strange rickety vehicles—moved to one side. It was like the seas parting. Their black-and-gold tikka-gharry sped off. Aft
er it was lost from view, the traffic surged round them.
The villains had escaped.
My hand was stinging, and a weal was purpling my flesh where that man had struck me with his cane—but this was no time for self-pity.
“What’s Bori Bunder?” I asked my aunt.
“The train station.”
“Quick! We have to follow them.”
Chapter Nine
When we got to the station there was no sign of Champlon or his strange companions. Everywhere we looked was a heaving mass of people, of porters balancing huge trunks on their heads, of families trailing straggling children. The sticky heat, the crush, made my head feel as if it was alive with buzzing flies. Above the constant din of people and steam engines, was the bawling of vendors carrying trays of scalding drinks—“Kaapee, kaapee,” “Chai, chai”—for that is how they sell coffee and tea in this strange land.
“We will never find Champlon,” I sighed, looking around despairingly.
I must confess I had rarely felt so utterly bewildered by any sight as that inside Bori Bunder. What a steaming, rickety place it was. Only the trains struck a modern note.
“Of course not,” snapped my aunt. “Might as well look for a maggot in a rotten tree.”
“Maybe we can find him in Baroda, maybe the Maharajah will help us.”
“Cease your dreaming,” my aunt said, turning away.
Prinsep was helping Miss Minchin into the Maharajah’s carriage, handling her as if she had still not recovered from her bath in the sea. Unlike all the other train compartments, which were dirty and crammed with people, the royal carriage was the height of luxury, draped in gold-embroidered curtains, the soft leather seats plump with cushions. It even had a small golden throne, which stood in the middle of the paneled room. Porters were attending to our luggage, which they loaded just in time, for the whistle blew and with much puffing of oily black smoke the train made its way out of the station.
As the train chugged through a flat landscape of rice fields, palm trees and mud huts, a small boy dressed in the red and gold livery of the Maharajah pulled a flat fan made of palm leaves over our heads. This “punkah” did little to ease the stifling heat inside the carriage, merely moving the hot air around a little. I gazed out of the window. Squatting dangerously close to the sides of the rail tracks were hordes of villagers. They were stick thin, the women dressed in colored sheets called saris, many of the men wearing a garment I found hard to describe. It looked like a knee-length skirt. Wherever the train went, crowds watched.
I watched them in turn, sipping the sugary, spicy chai. I felt lost, for India was blisteringly hot, crowded and so foreign. Even the chai, sweet though it was, tasted peculiarly different from my normal tea. For a moment I felt homesick for the rain and gray familiarity of Oxford.
Mr. Prinsep, who had been talking in a low voice to Miss Minchin, suddenly cleared his throat, attracting our attention.
“I say,” he said and abruptly stopped, his mouth hanging open. Prinsep was apt to behave like this, suddenly forget what he wanted to say in the middle of a sentence. Miss Minchin began speaking to him in an undertone, perhaps urging him on.
“Maybe he’s going to declare his love for the Minchin,” Isaac murmured in my ear.
“Wouldn’t that be wonderful,” I muttered. “No more sums.”
“He saved her life. Maybe now he can save her from turning into an old spinster,” Waldo said meanly.
I glared at him.
“At least it would let your father off the hook,” Isaac added.
I switched my glare to Isaac.
“I say,” began Prinsep again. This time he managed to get his words out—and sadly they did not concern our governess. “I want to talk to you a bit about Baroda. You see, as I expect you all know, the last Maharajah, Malharrao, was a bad egg. A nasty chappie. Gambled, drank, spent the state’s gold like water; for example he had a carpet of pearls made for his bedchamber! Worst of all he wasn’t above chopping a head or two off just for the fun of it. Well, things really came to a head when he tried to poison the British Resident. A tad of arsenic in the poor fellow’s lemon sherbet.”
“The Resident was Mrs. Spragg’s husband,” I interrupted. “She told us all about it.”
“Well, then, I see you know the background. Thing is, the Queen Mother, the Rani, decided they had to have a new Maharajah. So she had her spies find three humble village lads and bring them to the palace. The boys were scared stiff. I’ve been told they’d never seen a chair before, some of ’em, never mind a whole palace. Each boy was asked the same question—why had they been brought here? The first didn’t know, the second replied, ‘To see the sights.’”
“Only the third boy, Sayaji, replied, ‘To rule.’ He’s rather a bold little chap. Of course he became the new king!”
“That’s all very well,” Aunt Hilda cut in, “but my brother, Professor Theo Salter, and I have a special reason for visiting Baroda. That is why your offer to put us up was really very fortunate.”
“Yes?” Mr. Prinsep asked, bewildered.
“We are interested in the recent discovery in the palace’s treasure vaults. They are said to include a map to the legendary mountain paradise, Shambala.”
At the name Shambala, my father woke up. “You must help us find these papers, Prinsep. They belonged to the famous Jesuit traveler Father Anthony Monserrate. He was in India three hundred years ago and wrote a diary. It is said that he may have even found a very old stone table or parchment—we don’t know which—that shows the way to Shambala.”
“I don’t know anything about Sham-whatsitsname or any paradises,” replied Prinsep, who was starting to look a bit harassed. ‘Of course I will help you all I can, but you see things are a bit delicate at the moment in Baroda. The crops have failed, there’s been a bit of a famine and, well, the old Maharajah—he just made things worse. Thing is, revolution hangs in the air. There’re all sorts of bandits on the loose who want to kill the new king.
“There have already been six attempts on the young Maharajah’s life. He is surrounded by armed guards day and night. The palace is seething with talk of plots, the staff constantly on the lookout for would-be killers. You must be very careful for, you see, he’s only a lad, just twelve years old.” He came to an abrupt stop and we smiled encouragingly at him.
“Hope I’ve not put my foot in it or anything like that,” Prinsep suddenly gave one of his foolish grins—this one directed at Aunt Hilda. “See, we’re jolly lucky to be allowed in to see the Maharajah. So the thing is, folks, pretty important to show the proper respect to the little lad.”
“Am I showing the proper respect?” I mouthed silently to Rachel. Bowing so low my nose scraped the floor, I inched snail-like toward the boy king.
“Behave,” Rachel whispered, though she could not help grinning.
I caught my first glimpse of the Maharajah, Sayaji—a boy perching on a throne made for a man. His face was round as a full moon, teeth flashing white in skin with the sheen of polished walnut. His puffy cheeks were fringed by feathery eyelashes. He surveyed the world from under those lashes. In fact, at first glance he looked as if he was dozing on his throne.
What a throne! Like a curved golden shell, set with glittering gems. The throne dominated the enormous first-floor chamber, which was crowded with courtiers, open to the sun and rain on all sides. Birds fluttered in and out, graceful swooping things with scarlet tails and ruffs. Above the chatter of the courtiers was the melodious twitter of these bulbul songbirds, India’s nightingales. But the boy was apart from all the hullabaloo, ringed as he was by five bodyguards. I was told these men shadowed him day and night, on the watch for assassins. How small he looked among those burly men, bristling with knives and swords! Like a child at the dress-up box. A boy playing at king.
Rachel murmured, “He looks so sad and lonely.”
“I wouldn’t be sad. Not if everyone had to grovel to me.” Waldo grinned.
As we app
roached, the boy opened his eyes and I saw what Rachel meant. He did look sad, somehow. There was a lost look in those bulging brown eyes. The Maharajah was dressed in the simplest white linen tunic and pajamas, though his chubby hands were be-ringed with glittering gems. Nothing save the huge diamond—the legendary Star of the East—glittering on a chain around his neck marked him out as the king. What an odd ruler.
I felt sorry for the young Maharajah. How many of the courtiers circling around him must be plotting to seize power for themselves? How many supposed friends were just waiting for their chance to plant a knife between his shoulder blades? The looks, the whispers, the courtiers bristling with swords. Easy to imagine the dagger glinting in some shadowy corner. What a strange mixture of glamour and decay the Ran Bagh palace was.
“What is these, Charles?” the Maharajah asked, turning to his tutor. I had been told that he was learning English, but he spoke remarkably well.
“The travelers I told you about, Your Highness” Prinsep replied. “The archaeologists.”
“They make archaeologists young in England,” said a diminutive man standing by the throne. He peered at us doubtfully. Later I learned that this was the Dewan, the king’s adviser and the real power behind the throne. He was bald as an egg and had a funny, crinkled face. But his green eyes were shrewd.
“No, these are their children.” Prinsep pointed to my father and aunt. “Here are the archaeologists.”
“A woman?” the Dewan gazed thunderstruck at my aunt, who, clad in puffy bloomer-style trousers, stood in front of my father, blocking him from sight. “She goes about in that?”
I suddenly realized what had struck me as strange about the palace. There were no women, anywhere, though coming up the stairs I’d heard the faint tinkle of laughter. Through a moon-shaped fretwork in the wall I glimpsed slanting, almond-shaped eyes watching me. A swirl of pink silk. Then more bell-like laughter and the eyes disappeared. Aunt Hilda had explained the vision to me: in this palace, the ladies kept “purdah” and had to keep to their quarter of the palace which was called the Zenana. For all their silks, gold and baubles, they were but beautiful caged birds. Like the Maharajah, they were trapped.
The Maharajah's Monkey Page 6