‘Sensible of you to ask the question,’ Joe remarked. ‘Look, I’ve got something in my bag for you. George sent it and he’s signed his name in the front.’ He unbuckled his bag and produced a book. One Thousand and One Cunning Card Tricks for Clever Boys, was its whimsical title.
It seemed to work its magic as Bahadur’s next question was, ‘If it’s not you, then is it Edgar Troop who’s going to kill me?’
Joe could only guess at the depths of insecurity, the loneliness and the fear behind the question, and his sympathy and his heart went out to the boy. Soon he would be fatherless – did he know that? – and he would be surrounded by people out to manipulate him, perhaps even get rid of him. What reassurance could Joe give – a stranger in the palace? A ferret being thrust down an unexplored rat-hole where any menace might lurk? The next Heatstroke Express might be ferrying a hired gun to the palace, though he might well be already in place. And, Joe supposed, there was no lack of home-grown talent who might oblige.
‘Not Edgar,’ he said. ‘No, not Edgar. He works for Sir George too. We’re both here to help you and to find out what happened to your brothers. I’ve no idea yet what’s going on here in Ranipur but there is something wrong. You seem to have the run of the palace,’ he added speculatively. ‘Help me to find out what’s happening as far as you can – without putting yourself into danger, that is. Breaking into strangers’ rooms and sticking a gun in their face is a good way to get yourself killed!’
He was struck by a worrying thought. ‘Bahadur, tell me, whereabouts do you live in the palace? Have you got, er, safe living quarters?’
The boy shook his head. ‘This is a problem for me. I will tell you that there is nowhere that is safe. I have been living, as do all young boys of the princely family, in the zenana but I do not like it and I have left that place. My mother has her own apartment there but it is very crowded. The maharanees also have their apartments in the zenana. Their sons sit higher on the carpet than I do and they despise me. When Bishan died his mother, First Her Highness, was heard to say that it was unfair that her son, the rightful heir, the Maharaj Kumar, had died when “that little low-born, crawling insect” was still alive. She was speaking of me. And now Second Her Highness will say the same thing. Their Highnesses are not friendly with each other in normal times but I think that now they have both lost sons their hatred will combine and fix on me. They will do whatever is in their power to keep me from sitting on the gaddi.’
‘Gaddi?’
‘You would say throne. The ceremonial cushion the ruler sits on.’
‘But would ladies of their station – maharanees both – stoop to kill a child?’
Bahadur gave him an astonished look. ‘Oh, yes. They have tried to have my mother killed many times. But my mother is clever and well served by the palace servants who always bring warning. She is called Lal Bai. They hate her because she is a village girl and speaks only her village tongue but mainly they hate her because my father has always spent much time with her.’ Bahadur looked doubtful for a moment. ‘Until Third Her Highness came to live here. That was a year ago and my mother and I have seen very little of my father since then.’
‘So, where have you found a billet? Where do you sleep?’
‘I sleep anywhere and everywhere. Never in the same place twice.’
He paused and looked at Joe, wondering how far to trust him. Joe arranged the features of his killer’s face into what he hoped was a reassuring and receptive expression and waited.
‘There are people watching me. Everywhere I go I feel I am being followed. I hear footsteps behind me in the corridors and when I turn, there is no one there. Figures I have noticed ahead of me disappear. In the night, I hear noises I don’t understand. Govind finds me places. There are many rooms only he knows about. Sometimes I sleep in the elephant pens. They keep watch over me. There are ninety-five elephants and I know every one of them. They know me.’
‘So, that’s Govind and the elephants. Anyone else you can rely on?’
‘Yes. There is a forester, an old man who has always cared for me. And I like the airman, Captain Mercer. He is very friendly and says one day he will teach me to fly. He lets me stay in the hangar whenever I like and he never gives me away. But my best friend in the palace is a good man who is staying with my father. A tiger hunter. He has taught me all his skills. His name is Colin O’Connor. I go out into the jangal with him as often as he will take me.’
‘Mmm . . . Doesn’t sound all that secure to me, roving round the jungle with a tiger hunter,’ said Joe. ‘You mentioned a nanny, I think? Is she still in employ at the palace?’
Bahadur’s face softened. ‘Yes, she is here. She is a Scottish lady, Miss Macarthur, and she is very fierce. She would fight for me with the courage of a tigress but she is a woman and she could not keep off an assassin with a parasol, could she?’
‘Where are her quarters?’
‘In the Old Palace. I will take you to see her tomorrow. She will be pleased to meet a friend of Sir George.’
‘Another elderly conquest!’ thought Joe, grudgingly. ‘The umpteenth member of the Sir George Appreciation Society.’
‘I’d like to see you again tomorrow, Bahadur. In fact it would put my mind at rest if I had you in my sights as much as possible every day. Stick as close by me as you can. If anyone asks why, tell them you’re teaching me astronomy. Now, look, I’ve got to write up a report for Vyvyan, bathe, dress and get myself down to dinner. Better get a move on!’
Bahadur looked at his wristwatch. Joe blinked in admiration. It was a diamond-encrusted Cartier watch and though Joe would never have remarked on another man’s possessions, the look of boyish pride as Bahadur consulted it prompted him to make the anticipated admiring comment. Bahadur smiled in glee, his first genuine smile, and instantly he slipped the watch off his wrist and handed it to Joe. ‘I’m so glad you like it. It was given to me by a jewel salesman from London who visited last year. My father was much impressed by the man’s generosity to his son and placed a large order with him. Now I give it to you. Please take it.’
Joe’s embarrassed protests were brushed aside. ‘But this is our custom,’ the boy said firmly. ‘If a guest admires any of our possessions, we are proud to give them to him. You are a warrior like the Rajputs, I see this, so I know you must understand. Would you not want to give me something of yours if I truly admired it?’
‘Well, yes, of course,’ said Joe automatically, taken in by the boy’s expression of earnest innocence and honour.
Too late he realized that he had been trapped. Bahadur placed the watch ceremoniously in the centre of the dressing table, turned to Joe and said, ‘Well now, I really must be going. I’ll return tomorrow and we’ll continue our conversation, sir.’
Joe held his breath as the boy made his way to the door. Was he going to get away with it? Reaching the table by the door, Bahadur caught sight of the Browning M and raised his hands in an actor’s gesture of surprise and recognition. He picked it up. It slid into his grasp with familiar ease, the scale appropriate to his small hand. ‘Keep this safe, Mr Sandilands. I would be most distressed if you were to lose it because it is the most beautiful, the most comforting gun I have ever handled. Just to have such a gun as this – though unloaded, as you say – tucked into my belt, would make me feel more secure.’
He sighed.
Joe knew he’d been tricked but he recognized that the crushing fear the boy was living under was genuine, the threat real, his plea heartfelt.
He took a deep breath. He heard his own voice saying with what he thought might just be the formality and pride appropriate to a Rajput warrior, ‘I would be honoured, Bahadur, if you would keep the gun.’
They smiled at each other in complete understanding and Bahadur and his Browning disappeared as suddenly as they had arrived.
Soaking in his bath, Joe was torn between rage and amusement. He was angry to have lost his gun though luckily he had had the forethought to pack his old serv
ice revolver along with ammunition. Ammunition! A sudden cold thought sent him dripping, naked, from the bath to his trunk. He tried to recollect the weight of the little gun in his hand when he had wrested it from Bahadur and could not. Cursing his carelessness, he dug around and, with a sigh of relief, found the spare clips for the Browning still where he’d placed them, wrapped up in a waistcoat.
He counted them. There was one missing.
Chapter Seven
Joe groaned. A nervous twelve-year-old was loose about the palace armed with the police commander’s own gun. Not unloaded as he had thought but with eight lethal bullets up the spout. Joe imagined Sir George’s comments if he ever found out. Suppose the lad went straight back to the zenana with his new toy to exact retribution from the maharanees for the attempts on his mother’s life? Like a fox in a hen-coop he’d be able to kill at will.
Joe tried to put these horrifying but fanciful ideas out of his mind. There had been something about the boy that had earned his confidence. He didn’t doubt his courage and he’d been impressed by his cleverness and quick thinking. Perhaps Bahadur had presented him with a true bill – he genuinely wanted to keep the gun as personal protection. Well, so be it. He reasoned that Bahadur could trust no one; he could be in genuine danger of death from an unknown quarter and, ultimately, his only defence might well be the Browning. And then, though heaven forbid, he’d be damned glad he’d given it to him. He told himself to relax and finish dressing. He had left himself only an hour in which to complete his report for Claude.
Feeling rather foolish sitting at his desk in evening gear and the promised white tie, all pressed at a moment’s notice by the palace staff, Joe found supplies of writing paper and an excellent fountain pen, already loaded with black ink, and set to work. The words flowed easily, no detail was missed and he was happy with his account. He folded it in two, slipped it into his pocket and, after a guilty look at the Cartier watch, he tucked that into his other pocket, not knowing what else to do with it and acknowledging that the security of his room was nonexistent. He pulled the bell and waited for his escort to the dining room. He had left a perfect ten minutes to spare.
While he waited he went to stand in front of the cheval glass to make a last check on his appearance. The evening suit, tailored for him in Calcutta, fitted well, the narrow, waist-long jacket flattered his slim figure and long legs. His spanking white shirt and tie emphasized a face darkened by almost a year of living an outdoor life in the sun. ‘More of this and I’ll be able to pass for a native,’ he thought, tugging at his tie. ‘But not, perhaps, with these eyes.’ Light grey was not an Indian colour. ‘Huh! Fighting elephant, indeed!’
He was confused to find himself wondering briefly what Madeleine would make of him with all the layers of dust and perspiration washed away and reminded himself guiltily that she would, of course, not be expected in any society to come down to dinner mere hours after her husband’s death.
The reassuring figure of Govind appeared in the mirror behind him. ‘The waistcoat, Govind,’ said Joe. ‘Not too fancy, I hope? What do you think?’
Govind considered for a moment. ‘Everything is perfect, sahib. Exactly what is required. Handkerchief perhaps?’
They set off, retracing their earlier steps back to the Old Palace. ‘The reception will be in the durbar room tonight,’ said Govind. His voice took on a hushed and serious tone. ‘The palace – the state – is in mourning for the young prince and this will continue for twelve days. You arrive at an unfortunate time, sahib.’
‘You must tell me how I may best avoid getting in the way,’ said Joe with concern. ‘Mark my card, Govind, and don’t let me crash about insensitively annoying people.’
‘I think the sahib has the sensitivity of an elephant.’ Govind smiled and gently nodded.
For a moment Joe was startled then he remembered that for these warriors who lived, worked and sometimes fought alongside elephants the animal was revered for its intelligence and discretion. He returned the nod, recognizing the compliment.
‘The funeral ceremony will take place tomorrow afternoon at the samshan – the cremation ground – by the river. You and your fellow guests will not be involved. The palace has many distractions to put before you while we are occupied with our religious rites.’
‘I see,’ said Joe doubtfully. A situation already socially delicate now promised to be impossible. ‘Are there areas of the palace and town I should perhaps avoid?’
‘Yes, sahib. The mourning rituals will be performed in the women’s quarters where the ruler has gone to join the maharanee, the mother of his son. The zenana will be the scene of much wailing and crying out. The women will be breaking their bangles in grief over the body of the Yuvaraj and garlanding him with flowers. This afternoon’s events are most distressing but His Highness will be present to greet you and share a drink, although he is very tired and very busy as you can imagine he would be and he will not stay long. You will be able to become acquainted with the other guests, however, and enjoy an excellent meal. His Highness is concerned that you should all have a pleasant and most sociable evening.’
Joe smiled his appreciation of this piece of considerate attention. It was a sensible arrangement; he would have organized things in just the same way.
He approached the door of the durbar hall with keen anticipation. He was a sociable man and enjoyed conversation. But, above all, he was desperately hungry and hoped that the drinks party wouldn’t drag on for too long. It seemed a very long time since he’d shared a railway curry with Edgar at Umballa.
Vyvyan was waiting for him at the entrance to the durbar hall. He ran an approving eye over Joe, followed immediately by an enquiring lift of an eyebrow.
‘I have it,’ said Joe in answer. He produced his report and handed it over.
‘Good man!’ said Claude. Without giving the document a glance, he passed it to an aide who slid it into a file and moved away.
‘Most of the guests are already here so you’ve timed it well, and the ruler himself is eager to meet you. Shall we go in?’
Joe followed him through the pair of heavy sandalwood doors, lined with ivory and held open by two servants, and he stood for a moment, stunned by the glittering scene before him.
‘Like stepping into a Dulac illustration from The Arabian Nights, I always think,’ whispered Claude, entertained by Joe’s reaction.
The large meeting room was long and low and not a square inch of surface, it seemed, was without rich decoration. Fluted pillars, encrusted with coloured stones in a complex floral design, held up a ceiling shining with mica and gold leaf. The long walls were pierced by arched doorways and the intervals between were covered in expanses of mirror glass. Even the floor shone and Joe, coming out of his trance and moving forward, set a careful foot down, mindful that his evening shoes were new, the leather soles still slippery, and was grateful to reach a thick amber carpet in the centre of the room. Two crystal chandeliers, Lalique, he guessed, and ranks of white candles set on low tables in the corners of the room provided the lighting; flickering flames reflected off a thousand shining surfaces.
In contrast to the brilliant setting, the guests were a sombre group in black and white. Soberly clad in deference to the recently bereaved, they had gathered at the far end of the room. At Joe’s entrance all stopped talking and turned to look at him. One of the men, wearing evening dress improbably topped off with a white silk turban in which winked a diamond aiguilette, came forward to greet him. He was leaning heavily on an ebony stick and, although a tall and well-made man, was obviously not in good health. His features could have been carved from aged ivory, the skin drawn tight over bones almost visible beneath diminished flesh. His dark eyes, however, remained full of life and were taking in his guest’s appearance as he approached.
Claude, at Joe’s elbow, hurried to make the introduction. ‘Your Highness, may I present Commander Joseph Sandilands?’
Maharaja Udai Singh smiled and nodded but, Joe noticed, di
d not go in for hand-shaking.
‘We are delighted, Commander, that you can be with us at such a difficult time. I understand that you have offered your valuable services and expertise to look into my son’s death which you were so unfortunate as to witness this afternoon.’
Joe found Indian voices attractive and musical but, even by Indian standards, this voice was remarkable. It was deep and liquid but the formal phrases were lifeless – formulae concealing despair and pain. His speech had the quality of the heart-rending adagio of a cello concerto Joe had heard at the Queen’s Hall the year after the war’s end. Edward Elgar’s, he remembered, and the composer himself had conducted. Joe had listened, tears in his eyes, as the music spoke to him of loss, regret and devastation. Udai Singh’s voice resonated with the same emotions.
Joe bowed. ‘It will be an honour, Your Highness, though a most unwelcome task,’ he replied with equal formality.
‘It is my wish that the cloud of grief which hangs over the palace should not be burdensome for our guests. You are not of our religion, tribe or culture and will play no part in our mourning. I am conscious that, as bereaved father, my attentions will be elsewhere for the coming days but you are my guests and will not be neglected. The palace is large and can accommodate both the sorrow we are feeling and the pleasure you may have been anticipating.’
Then, with a change of key, ‘Let that be our last mention of today’s events. Come and meet your fellow guests who ought to be able to put a few distractions your way during your stay. I cannot introduce you to your hostess because my wife, Shubhada, has yet to arrive. Are you married, Sandilands?’ He smiled enquiringly at Joe. ‘No? Well, a word of warning for when you are – for every pair of earrings you give her, she will hesitate a further ten minutes when dressing. So, the next senior lady . . . Mrs Vyvyan! Lois!’
The Palace Tiger Page 6