‘George, you’d better tell me what happened last month,’ said Joe with foreboding.
‘A disgraceful scene! The elder son died. Now what was his name? Bishan, that’s it. Any coroner would have said death by misadventure, but the circumstances were, to my mind, a bit mysterious. Oh, no loss! We assumed he was the heir and we weren’t happy with that. Chap was a sort of walking sponge. Alcohol, opium, absinthe, he took it all aboard. Not the slightest interest in anything but his own gratification and consequently a rather unpopular man, but his cause was espoused by his terrible old mother, the First Her Highness. She was twenty when she married Udai thirty-odd years ago and he was a lad of thirteen. An enterprising lad because she presented him with a son in short order. A few daughters followed but I don’t know their names; they’ve all been married off to neighbouring princes. One or two sons who died in infancy, I believe. He married a second wife years later and she too has a son. Must be in his late twenties now.’
‘So there’s no immediate problem then?’
‘Not so sure of that. Everybody heaved a sigh of relief when the elder son met his sticky end but that left number two next in line and he’s hardly any better from our point of view. A drinker like his brother – though they say reformed – but what has really annoyed his father is that he’s recently married (whilst on a trip to the States) a very unsuitable girl. An American. Dancer of some sort. Some say she’s a circus girl. Very beautiful by all accounts but a menace. Refuses to join the other ladies in the zenana and insists on having her own accommodation. Drives around in a cream roadster with scarlet trimmings, drinks too much champagne and swears like a trooper.’
‘Sounds fun!’ said Joe, unguardedly.
‘A rackety pair but – they say – devoted to each other. Prithvi has held out against all his father’s suggestions, commands even, that he marry a decent Indian girl as second wife to ensure the succession. There’s a law, you see – British law – that any children of marriages to Western girls may not inherit so Prithvi has really upset his father! Cut off the line, you might say. The pair met on an airfield, I understand. And that’s another of number two’s passions. He’s mad about flying. He’s got a plane in Ranipur and flies it, recklessly I hear, about the place. Not a good insurance risk!’
‘Is there an alternative?’
‘As it’s quite in order for the ruler to nominate whomever he likes – and never forget Udai was himself a village boy, a distant relation, when he was nominated as ruler against all the odds – there must be hundreds! He can pick and choose. Doesn’t even have to be a member of his own family. His older brother, over whose head he was promoted so to speak, is his Dewan, his prime minister I suppose you’d say. Very sound and sensible chap, Zalim Singh. Statesman. He must think he’s strongly in the running. And we would not be displeased if he were. But there is another serious contender. Had my eye on this one for some time.’
Joe waited, wondering whether he ought to be making a few notes.
George went on with relish, ‘The prince has a third son. Illegitimate. Son of one of his concubines. The lad’s only twelve years old though.’
Joe was not deceived. ‘Twelve years old? Impressionable? Malleable? In need of a highly principled regent to show him the ropes?’
‘You’ve got it! He’s bright as a button! I’ve met him. Sounded him out, you might say. Interested in science and astronomy. Good little hunter too. Shot his first leopard three years ago. Speaks good English, gets on well with Claude and that’s important. If he succeeds, as you suggest, he’ll need a regent to supervise him during the years of his minority and – who better than Claude? We were planning to send the lad to Mayo College near Jaipur next year to complete his education. Or to Eton and then Sandhurst if he wishes.’
‘So, the stable money’s on son number three. But you haven’t told me, George, what exactly happened to put number one out of the running permanently?’
George hesitated and took a large gulp of his whisky before replying. ‘You have to understand, Joe, that this is quite an, er, alien culture we’re dealing with here. Until very recently these chaps were – and I have to say still largely are – Rajput warriors. Very special breed. Hindu by religion with some Moslem attributes. Many of these Rajput tribes fought off the Moghul invaders with suicidal bravery. Some, like Udai’s mob, even managed to hang on to their independence. Tough nuts to crack! They’re very fierce, very proud, quarrelsome and quite intractable. Imagine a Scottish chieftain, if you will, but unconquered and with oodles of cash in the treasury.’
‘Not easy, but I get the idea!’
‘They put great store too by physical courage and strength. Now they can no longer show their prowess on the battlefield, they demonstrate their power through sport. Hunting, wrestling, polo, elephant fights, pig sticking, that sort of thing. You must get someone to show you the armoury while you’re down there – it’s very special. Well, it was apparently son number one’s charming habit to show his strength by wrestling with panthers.’
‘Good God! I’m surprised the heir to the throne was allowed to do that!’
‘Not quite as dangerous as it sounds. I’m unhappy to say that this chap fixed the odds. He had a black panther kept in a large cage in the palace courtyard. He’d had it declawed and its jaws sewn up. He’d go down every morning and wrestle with it to the fawning admiration of the courtiers. It was his custom to use a panther in this way and then turn it over to the elephant pens to give the beasts trampling practice.’
Joe’s mouth was a tight line of distaste but he remained silent.
George went on, his joviality fractionally strained, ‘One day, this charmer rolled out of bed, said his morning prayers, consumed his customary dose of opium to give him strength and courage and went down for his prebreakfast wrestle. Trouble is, this time the panther won. During the night, someone had replaced the declawed panther with a fresh and very angry beast who wasn’t playing by the rules. It tore him to pieces.’
‘Appalling!’ Joe murmured. ‘Did they find out who’d replaced the animal?’
‘I don’t suppose anything like a Scotland Yard enquiry took place but there was retribution. The Master of the Hunt and all his assistants disappeared at once and haven’t been seen since. It’s assumed they were quietly executed.’
‘Didn’t Claude Vyvyan have something to say about that?’
‘Apparently not. I’m still awaiting his report.’
There was something in George’s tone which alerted Joe. He knew him well enough by now to be able to pick up his unexpressed thoughts. Certainly time he got out of India! Almost resentfully, he followed where George was leading him.
‘A man you can trust, Vyvyan? It sounds as though you’re going to need to trust him, the way things are going in Ranipur. A regency is no small matter. Calls for a skilled and loyal servant of the Empire and one who’s prepared to put in a concentrated effort over a period of time . . . Is this what we have in Vyvyan, Sir George?’
‘Highly qualified fellow. Talented . . . thorough . . . ambitious, you’d say. But, well, you understand, I’m always glad to have an unbiased pair of eyes to spy out the land. Let me know what you make of him, Joe. That’s another reason I want you down there, my boy. Find out, if you can, what’s really going on in Ranipur, will you? Look on this in hunting terms, shall we? We’re out in the jungle, unseen danger lurking behind every bush, and some helpful forest creature gives a warning cry. What do you do? Well, you interpret the cry and check your gun’s loaded. Then you wait and watch and see what comes creeping out of the undergrowth. Come on, let’s go and have lunch then we’ll get our shooting practice in.’
He turned to Joe and looked at him steadily. ‘My boy, there are man-eaters about in Ranipur, certainly one with stripes and four legs but quite possibly another prowling the palace corridors on two legs. Be careful, Joe!’
Chapter Four
Joe very much enjoyed Indian first class rail travel. He liked the comforta
ble buttoned black leather upholstery, he appreciated the block of ice sharing a tin bath with a dozen bottles of India Pale Ale, strong and hoppy, and he watched as one by one their labels floated off. He listened with half his mind to Edgar’s anecdotal conversation and was glad enough to have escaped from Simla.
It was late afternoon before they arrived at the junction with the private rail link with Ranipur. ‘Say goodbye to comfort,’ said Edgar. ‘From now on we’re on the narrow gauge, colloquially known as the Heatstroke Express. I keep talking to Udai about it but he never travels by train himself and he doesn’t know how the rest of the world suffers. You would think that some of the nobs who use the little railway would have told him.’ He rose to his feet, began to button himself up and committed his cigar to a deep ashtray. Joe joined him to look out of the window.
‘Behold the powerful state of Ranipur!’
‘Powerful? Would you say powerful?’ Joe asked.
‘Well, it’s all relative, isn’t it? Some would say prosperous, successful, untroubled.’
‘But having a bloodstained past?’
‘Yes, indeed, and possibly a bloodstained future as well.’
Joe gave him a sharp look. ‘You sound a bit ominous. Ancestral voices, do I hear, prophesying war?’
An unaccustomed look of uncertainty passed briefly over Edgar’s florid features and he paused a moment before replying. ‘Nothing as definite as that but I’ll answer your question properly when I find out why, I mean really why I’ve been summoned by Udai. Devious old twister that he is!’
They stepped down into the extreme of an Indian summer’s day.
‘Heatstroke Express!’ said Joe. ‘I see what you mean!’ And a little train whistling and steaming sweatily stood by on another line to receive them.
‘Only an hour,’ said Edgar. ‘We’ll probably survive. People mostly do.’
But they didn’t have to make the experiment. As they walked across the station forecourt they turned to look at a large white car approaching them at speed and trailing a cloud of dust.
‘Ha!’ said Edgar with satisfaction. ‘A great honour! They’ve sent the Rolls! I wonder if it’s for you or me?’
‘Can’t be for me,’ said Joe. ‘He didn’t know I was coming. Did he?’
‘My dear chap,’ said Edgar, ‘you haven’t begun to understand Udai if you imagine he doesn’t know who’s come, who’s gone, who to expect, who not to expect and what you’ve got packed in your luggage!’
For a startled moment, Joe had a vision of the dark metal of the snub-nosed gun nestling amongst his dress shirts and hoped he’d remembered to lock his trunk. Joe’s eyes followed it anxiously as it was moved with Indian efficiency along with other luggage from the mainline on to the waiting narrow gauge train. For a moment he regretted not keeping the gun tucked away in his belt in spite of the discomfort. He turned his attention back to the open-topped Rolls Royce Phantom and looked and looked again at the two people in the front seats.
The passenger seat was occupied by an Indian wearing a smartly tailored but dusty chauffeur’s uniform. Hatless and dishevelled, he was holding on to a leather strap, bracing himself as the car came to an abrupt halt at their feet. The driver, a slim figure in khaki trousers and white shirt, applied the handbrake and jumped out to greet them. She took off the borrowed chauffeur’s cap, releasing a shining fall of fair hair, and knocked the cap against her knee to shake off the thick layer of dust.
‘Edgar. How nice to see you again.’ Her tone was formal rather than warm and her attention moved rather more quickly than was polite from Edgar to himself.
‘And this is your English policeman? Cops finally got wise to you, did they, and put you in custody?’ She stared at Joe with undisguised appreciation, her expression now warm and playful. ‘Well, lucky old you! . . . My! If I weren’t already spoken for I’d put my cap right back on and set it at you, mister!’
‘Hello, Madeleine,’ said Edgar stiffly. ‘May I present my friend and colleague, Commander Joseph Sandilands? Joe is in India on secondment from Scotland Yard. Joe, this is Madeleine Mercer – as was – now the first wife of Udai’s second son, Prithvi. What the hell are you up to, Madeleine? Still trying to astonish, unnerve and upset? Udai won’t like this display, you know!’ He waved a hand theatrically at the onlookers beginning to gather round the Rolls. ‘Quite a decent crowd you’ve drummed up . . . thinking of going round with the hat?’ The sarcastic edge to his voice made Joe uneasy and he waited for Madeleine to reply in kind, but she ignored the gibe, smiled sweetly and put out a hot, sticky hand to shake Joe’s.
‘Hello, Joe, and welcome to Ranipur. I’m Maddy. Oh, and I’m not the first wife – I’m the only wife.’
Clearly there was little respect or liking between these two and Joe thought he could understand this. Loyal as he was to the ruler, Edgar would share his disappointment with the heir to the throne’s odd choice of bride. And Joe suspected that Edgar had an innate mistrust of any woman who did not conform to his idea of her role in society, Indian or British.
And this was a nonconformist, Joe decided, liking her at once. She was pretty, even beautiful. The first impression of youth and innocence given by the shining blonde hair and widely spaced brown eyes was belied at second glance by the thick straight brows, knowing expression and determined chin. He would have guessed her age as mid-twenties, a year or two younger than himself.
‘I’ve never driven a Rolls,’ Joe offered in an effort to distract them from pursuing their show of mutual dislike.
‘Have a go on the way back if you like,’ said Madeleine easily.
‘Thank you, but I’d hate to wrap it round a peepul tree,’ said Joe. ‘Not had much practice with motor cars. I do rather better with horses.’
‘It wouldn’t matter much if you crashed it. My father-inlaw’s got nine more like it back home.’ Was there disapproval in her flat American drawl? ‘I’ll give you lessons if you like. I’m pretty good, you’ll find.’
‘Madeleine’s father was a racing driver,’ Edgar explained. ‘And he passed on his skills – along with his modesty – to his daughter.’
The disapproval was unmistakable.
While they talked the chauffeur had taken their hand luggage and stowed it away in the car. He was now standing hopefully by the driver’s door.
‘Oh, go on then, Gopal! You’ve had enough excitement for one day, I guess! You can drive us back to the palace,’ said Madeleine. ‘Edgar, you sit in front. I’m going to cosy up with your friend and colleague in the back and tell him about Ranipur.’ She grinned at Joe. ‘All about Ranipur. The lid off Rajputana! Though I’ll have to work hard to counter some of the impressions Edgar’s given you, I expect. A woman’s-eye view of the principality is never going to be the same as a man’s.’
They settled down into the leather upholstery and the sleek car moved off at a sedate pace into the interior.
‘Just irritating Edgar,’ Joe guessed as Madeleine fell silent, allowing him to register his own impressions of the countryside uninterrupted by commentary. He looked about him eagerly. Desert scenery gave way to orchards and cultivated fields; strips of corn and millet and other crops Joe didn’t recognize filed past. Here and there patches of jangal, which Edgar explained meant uncultivated land, intruded into the tame landscape, small thatched villages sheltered under ancient fig trees, plough oxen plodded their desultory way under the relentless sun. In this dry countryside Joe was pleased to notice sleeping tanks of jade green water and here and there a turning water wheel and evidence of irrigation. And everywhere there were people working, the men standing out against the dun background in white dhotis and richly coloured turbans of saffron and magenta.
Their way was blocked for a moment or two in a village by a flock of girls as bright as birds of paradise in their saris of pink and acid green and yellow. Chattering and laughing and, Joe was quite certain, making rude remarks about the white faces in the white car, they moved off the road, heavy copper pots of mi
lk balanced on their heads, backs straight and swinging along with a lithe grace.
Joe was enthralled. ‘What beauties!’ he remarked.
‘Village women,’ said Madeleine dismissively. She gave Joe a look full of speculation and amusement and added, ‘If it’s female beauty you’re interested in you’ll find a fine sample at the palace. Well, at least, the ones you’re allowed to see . . . the respectable ones are still in purdah.’
‘I had understood that the ruler wasn’t in favour of purdah? It’s a Moghul tradition, isn’t it? Not Rajput?’
‘That’s so. The Rajputs adopted it from their conquerors – the Moghuls. It was the fashionable way to live your life. The women got used to it, I guess, and most of them at court would refuse to give it up if you gave them the choice . . . and, to be fair to Udai, I think he has. His first two wives both stay firmly behind the slatted screens of the zenana. They haven’t been seen by a man apart from their husband since they were married. And before that – only their brothers. Can you imagine! They spend their whole lives guarded by eunuchs, in the company of other women, most of whom they can’t stand, squabbling and intriguing all day long. Their chief topics of conversation are who’s been given the most valuable necklace and how many times has the ruler slept with them that month. What a life!’ Madeleine shuddered in a showy way. ‘I have nothing to do with them. As far as I’m concerned, they’re dead. Dead to the world!’
The Palace Tiger Page 3