The Palace Tiger

by Barbara Cleverly

  He paused and for a moment appeared to be surprised by his own frankness. ‘I learned long ago that ambition is a corrosive thing and our religion teaches us that worldly wealth and consequence avail us nothing in the end. Udai approaches his end fast now and let me tell you what will happen when the moment of death arrives. He will be lifted, as he dies, from his bed and placed on a heap of straw on the floor. He will take his last breath as he took his first – in simplicity, taking nothing from the world as he brought nothing in.’

  ‘And the horoscopes – the prophecies – will have been fulfilled?’

  ‘Yes indeed. They are always cast at the birth of a child and never prove wrong. My brother was correctly identified as a future ruler although a most unlikely candidate for the gaddi and, as predicted, he will be succeeded by his third son. Events are not in our own hands, Sandilands, and we try to no avail to twist the arm of Fate. But there are some . . .’ he paused and sighed, ‘who find themselves unwilling to accept the unrolling of Fortune’s carpet and I fear that I must ask you to submit to an audience with the mother of Bishan, First Her Highness. She has asked to see you and she is not accustomed to being denied. I will take you to the zenana myself. You understand our custom of purdah? The women’s quarters are guarded and no man but the prince and I may be admitted.’

  He rose and summoned the clerks with a clap of his hands, issued further orders and set off with Joe.

  After five minutes of striding along a pace behind Zalim, Joe was fancying himself Theseus but without the lifesaving thread. And what dark presence awaited him at his destination? The endless corridors, the rustling of unseen people concealing themselves behind doors and in alcoves as they progressed were disconcerting and disorienting. He reminded himself that he was heading for an encounter, not with a fearsome man-eating monster but with an elderly princess with little knowledge of the outside world, a mother whose only son had died less than two months before and who was clutching at straws in her unwillingness to accept the hand dealt her by Fate. He sighed. Perhaps the monster was to be preferred.

  A distancing courtyard alive with doves and chattering monkeys separated the women’s quarters from the main body of the Old Palace and Joe blinked in the harsh sunshine as they emerged from the shadows. Such was the onslaught of the afternoon sun he began to think that crossing the open space to the entrance to the zenana might tax his endurance too far and he looked with wonder at the tall spare figure standing straight as a lance to attention in full sunlight guarding the door.

  Elderly, magnificently bewhiskered and hot-eyed, he was obviously a military man of some distinction. Already well over six feet, he wore a turban surmounted by a high red cockade. His waist was hung about with several leather belts to which was attached a medley of weaponry. As they approached, the guard, ferocious white whiskers bristling, drew a slender curved sword from its scabbard and held it before him at the ready in a theatrical but nonetheless purposeful attitude.

  Zalim greeted him and ritual exchanges were made in Hindi.

  ‘My cousin’s father-in-law,’ explained Zalim. ‘A nobleman and keeper of the zenana. We have made special arrangements for your audience with Her Highness. These arrangements will include the services of an excellent interpreter as Her Highness speaks no English.’

  He called out a name and a figure which had been waiting unseen in the shadows of the doorway came forward. A girl, a tall girl with long black hair, large darkened eyes and a red rose at a jaunty angle behind one ear greeted Joe in a low and seductive voice. She was wearing, not the traditional Rajput petticoats and tight bodice, but long voluminous trousers and a tunic in a floating, gauzy fabric. Bangles chinked on her ankles and slim brown arms. She wore no veil or dopatta and looked Joe boldly in the face, curious and speculative.

  Zalim gave a few words of instruction to the girl and made to take his leave of Joe. ‘Well, off you go. I leave you in the care of Zafira. If there is anything you require . . . anything at all . . .’ he said, his voice purring in unmistakable conspiracy, ‘he will be delighted to accommodate you.’

  ‘Another of the Dewan’s pillow-talkers?’ Joe wondered, remembering Madeleine’s scathing phrase.

  It was a moment or two before the significance of Zalim’s remark hit him. He followed thoughtfully behind the sinuous figure of Zafira who walked along singing and clapping his hands every few paces as though in warning. ‘Watch out! Here comes . . . what? . . . a foreign policeman and a palace eunuch,’ Joe supposed. ‘Strange pair!’

  Intrigued, he had a thousand questions he would have liked to put to his guide but fearing his interest might be misinterpreted he asked none of them, following silently until they reached a colonnaded central courtyard. Here another paradisal garden spread its four green squares thick with lilies, orange blossom trees and bougainvillea and alive with the sound of piped water tinkling down decorative chutes and splashing from a central fountain.

  Peacocks stalked and scolded amongst the greenery but the living birds were outshone by the brilliant representations, tails proudly unfurled, captured in mosaics of lapis lazuli, turquoise and gold which decorated the walls of the zenana. Balconies overhung the courtyard and Joe was aware as they crossed the garden of scrutiny from many pairs of eyes behind the latticed shutters. He guessed that in normal times this place would be alive with chattering, laughing groups, with music, games, and perhaps dancing but today, a funeral day, all was still and silent apart from the mournful calls of the birds.

  They arrived at a shaded corner of the colonnade where a screen woven from split bamboo had been erected. On the outer side had been placed a stool and Zafira invited Joe to sit on it. He assured Joe that he would translate fast and accurately; he was accustomed to performing this service for Her Highness. There was a slight movement behind the chik screen, a faint waft of attar and Joe’s audience had begun.

  What had he expected? A shy, indistinct murmuring? Female curiosity? An outpouring of grief? All of these.

  ‘You are very handsome . . . for an Angrez!’ The voice was firm, clear and attractive. ‘Tell me, young man, are you as clever as you are handsome?’

  ‘Clever enough not to be seduced by compliments, even though they come from the highest lady in the land,’ he replied diplomatically.

  A burst of laughter from behind the screens made him wonder if, after all, he might begin to enjoy the conversation.

  ‘I pay no compliment; I merely tell the truth.’

  Joe felt disadvantaged by the unequal situation between them: she could catch every nuance of his changing expression whereas he could only guess at hers. Rather like performing on stage, he decided: actors, blinded by the footlights, saw little of their audience yet were able to feed somehow on their responses. Very well, he’d be an actor.

  He turned his head and presented his profile but also the war-damaged left side of his face. ‘Perhaps only half the truth, Your Highness. I have it on good authority that I bear more than a passing resemblance to the famous Yashastilak.’

  ‘I had observed your wound,’ came the calm reply. ‘And it is to be honoured. It is a sign of courage and hurt taken face to the enemy.’

  A bursting shell knows no compass direction but if she wanted to believe he’d received a sabre-cut in hand-tohand fighting, he’d happily go along with that. He raised his chin, narrowed his eyes and tried to look at once noble and fierce.

  More gurgles from behind the screen.

  ‘Yes! I see it now. Definitely Yashastilak!

  ‘But you must be wondering why I have asked you to come and talk to me, Sandilands? Of course, it is always a pleasure to meet an attractive young man and I wish we could converse in more auspicious circumstances.’ Her voice had taken on a businesslike tone. Clever Zafira, Joe noticed, was managing to convey this in his rapid translation.

  ‘My son, Bishan,’ went on the princess, ‘should even now be preparing to take his place on the gaddi but that will never be. They tell me his death was an accident bu
t I do not believe this. My purdah prevents me from finding out the truth. In the zenana we hear only what the outside world chooses to tell us. I hear from Edgar who has long been my friend that you go after the truth like a hound. When you have found it I would like you to come again and whisper the name of my son’s killer. You will be well rewarded.’

  What could Joe do but politely commiserate with the grieving princess and promise that he would tell her the truth which she deserved to know when he was in a position to reveal it?

  ‘But there is one matter you could clear up for me,’ he said hesitantly. ‘I don’t wish to intrude on family grief but it would be useful to my enquiries to know more precisely what were Bishan’s immediate family circumstances. Was he married? Did he have any children? I have only just arrived in Ranipur and things that are common knowledge to others are not yet known to me.’

  Her voice became cooler but she answered swiftly enough. ‘He was married. His wife is about the place somewhere in the zenana. They were married when they were children as is the custom. My daughter-in-law is a princess from a southern state. And, no, Bishan was not blessed with children. My daughters between them have many children but we were still waiting for Bishan’s good fortune . . .’ Her voice trailed away and Joe sensed that his question had disconcerted her.

  ‘But your thoughts, Sandilands, follow mine down a well-trodden track. If Bishan had had several sons, my husband would not have been reduced to the disastrous choice he has had to make in the matter of his successor. I hold Bishan’s wife, dull little mouse that she is, much to blame. If she had compelled his attention as I continually urged . . .’ Regret and rage cut off her words.

  It seemed the right moment to take his leave and Joe extricated himself as smoothly as he could, blindly following Zafira’s swaying hips and clapping hands through the corridors. As he plodded on he felt a weight of sorrow for the disregarded mouse and wondered to what dark corner of the zenana she had fled to hide her shame and to escape the scorn and anger of her mother-in-law.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Predictably, the lowering features of Edgar Troop greeted Joe as he emerged from the zenana.

  ‘There you are, Sandilands! And here I am, you see, on sheepdogging duty,’ he said with an awkward laugh. ‘After the day you’ve had, Joe, I expect it will be nothing but good news to hear you can stand down now.’

  Well, this was a surprise! Insightful sympathy was not a trait Joe easily ascribed to Edgar.

  ‘Not that, officially, you were ever on duty, of course. I don’t lose sight of that,’ he murmured. ‘We’ve arranged to have a portable meal served in Colin’s quarters – just the three of us – and we can spend the evening planning the tiger hunt. Colin got down here a few days before us and he’s been able to do a bit of reconnoitring. He’ll fill us in on his plan, assign duties, check the armament . . .’

  Joe smiled to see Edgar’s heavy features suffused with the joy of anticipation. This was his world: an evening spent in unbuttoned but purposeful ease with like-minded men, competent and keen. The barracks not the brothel, after all, appeared to be his natural habitat.

  ‘Did you manage to have much talk with First Her Highness?’ Edgar asked casually when they had distanced themselves from the zenana.

  ‘Incredibly, it was more in the nature of a mild flirtation,’ said Joe.

  Edgar scowled. ‘She likes her distractions. It entertains her to make a fool of gullible young Englishmen. Never underestimate her. You can’t see her in the shadows behind that screen but it’s always strategically placed with you a little way away sweating it out in the sunshine. She sees you all right! Every shifting expression!’

  ‘Yes,’ said Joe. ‘I’d worked that one out! Thinking of introducing a similar technique to the CID when I get back. We too find it useful to catch the shifty expressions.’

  ‘What did she want with you? Apart from the chance to view your manly features?’

  ‘What everyone wants: find out who killed her son and whisper the killer’s name to her.’

  ‘And did you turn up anything interesting?’

  ‘I found that Bishan was a most unsatisfactory first son. He was a neglectful husband and produced no children.’

  ‘I could have told you that! In fact, I rather think I did. Out of his brains with something or other most of the time. Rumoured to have been interested in boys but I don’t think there was any evidence. Neutered tom, I’d have said.’

  Joe was very prepared to take Edgar’s estimation of sexual orientation as professional and reliable.

  ‘No loss!’ Edgar added, echoing Sir George. ‘His mother mourns him but no one else.’

  ‘A different character from his brother, Prithvi?’

  ‘Well, remember they were half brothers. And yes, Prithvi was a much more likeable fellow. Got on much better with his father. Was trusted by him, you’d say. Good-looking, charming, bit of a drinker but he got that under control. Playboy. Madeleine wasn’t the first girl he got involved with but she was certainly the last. It was obvious to all that he was head over ears in love with her . . . But in all other ways he was a bright chap. You’d have liked him.’

  Emerging from the palace buildings, Edgar stopped and pointed ahead. ‘But forget all that for the evening. There’s Colin’s bungalow – over there, half a mile away at the north end of the Long Pond. Do you see it?’

  They followed a hard-beaten lakeside path, glad of the shade of fringing willows and the cooler air rising from the water. The sun had sunk behind a ridge of the Aravallis, turning the sky into an upturned copper bowl reflecting itself in the waters of the lake. A few birds, moorhens, he judged from their movements, were sculling about on the burnished surface but all was otherwise silent. Two grey, hunch-shouldered herons stood poised at the fringe, their frozen silhouettes emphasizing the deep stillness. It would be an hour or two before the animals would gather in twitching unease, making a fragile truce when they came down to drink as night fell. Joe noticed a small boat on the lake making for the shore. An Indian was rowing but Joe could not identify the other figure in the stern.

  Following his gaze, Edgar commented, ‘Third Her Highness. She’s a keen fisherman. All-round sportsman in fact. She’ll be an admirable regent for young Bahadur. Set him a good example and perhaps a challenge! I’d like to see her weaning the lad away from the influence of that nanny of his. Too much store set by subordinate clauses, Bunsen burners and Plato’s views of the universe. What the lad needs is some experience of real life!’

  The bungalow was built to a blueprint of the civilian accommodation designed by Edwin Lutyens. Practical, constructed to catch every air current that could be caught and, best of all, predictable. After nine months in India, Joe could have found his way around it blindfold. Colin’s welcome was warm and brisk. Without preamble he led them to a table on the verandah overlooking the lake. It was laid with sheets of paper, pencils and bottles of mineral water chilling in silver ice buckets and they settled to something very like a military briefing.

  ‘I’ve only had four days to chase after our tiger, a week would have been better, but at the rate at which the creature is killing villagers, I don’t feel inclined to wait any longer than necessary. Two or three are being killed each day or having narrow escapes. It was difficult to get any of the local people to accompany me, armed though I was with the latest Lee-Enfield. They’re scared stiff and hiding for most of the day.’

  ‘Why so many casualties?’ Joe asked. ‘I know nothing of tigers, of course, but isn’t that a high strike rate?’

  Colin looked down at the table and said thoughtfully, ‘A tiger needs a given amount of flesh per day to sustain life . . . Thirty pounds or so. His normal kill: chital, sambur, pig, buffalo, he can sit over for two or three days. To be blunt – there’s not a great deal of flesh on some of these villagers.’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ said Joe hastily, feeling rather foolish.

  Colin sensed his embarrassment and added, ‘Claude
asked the same question.’

  ‘Claude? Will he be of the party? Funny, I hadn’t expected him to be the slightest bit interested in tiger hunting.’

  ‘He isn’t. His interest lies in looking over my shoulder to make certain I’ve taken all precautions to ensure the safety of his protégé – Bahadur. As you can imagine – Claude is very involved with the lad’s continued good health! He came along with me for two of the days. Sensible chap, gets things done. We managed to buy up a few goats and stake them out. The tiger took the bait and we were able to follow the blood trail and the spoor. I think, in the end, Claude was quite intrigued by the process!’

  ‘Is that when tigers hunt? In the daytime?’ asked Joe.

  ‘Yes, daylight hours. Leopards attack at night.’

  ‘What sort of area are we looking at?’ said Edgar, examining a sketch Colin passed to them.

  ‘Well, you know that tigers are territorial?’ Joe sensed that Colin was setting out the problem in terms that he, a newcomer to the jangal, could understand. ‘Each one establishes supremacy in a particular area, kills within it and defends it from other tigers. This one has three villages on its shopping list. Here, look.’ He drew a line around the outer edge of his map and pointed out the three settlements inside the line. ‘Oh, by the way, not tiger. It’s a tigress. I’ve heard accounts from some of the people who’ve sighted it and I’ve seen its tracks. It’s a big female. Possibly as much as ten feet over curves. If she’s got cubs hidden away somewhere she will be very bad-tempered.’

  ‘But why does a tiger take to eating people?’ Joe asked. ‘They don’t do that naturally, do they?’

  ‘No, the tiger’s a gent. He’ll go out of his way – but not far out of his way (he’s proud, too) – to avoid humans. But sometimes the rules of nature break down. As in this case. The tracks I found near Dilakot show she’s been wounded in some way. The front right paw is turned in, practically unusable. Whatever happened to our beast, it produced a creature unable any longer to run at and attack its usual prey. Not got the speed and strength any more. To survive, she turns to easier, slower-moving creatures unable to defend themselves. We think she started out as a cattle-lifter then, as her debility increased, she took to killing men, women and children.