The Palace Tiger

by Barbara Cleverly

  ‘There have been no reports of hunters wounding and leaving a tiger to its own devices in the forest which is the sequence that usually creates a man-eater so we must assume that she got her wound in a fight, or a trap. Oh, there is a complicating factor: about a fortnight ago, a village woman threw a sickle at it – it had just killed her daughter – and she’s sure she hit it in the eye. So what we have is a half blind, limping tigress. Sounds a piece of cake, doesn’t it? But it’s these wounds that are making her desperate and cunning and making her seek out ever easier targets.’ He paused. ‘Five children were killed last week. The villagers are terrified. But more than terrified, they are grief-stricken and angry. The men have agreed to turn out and act as beaters when the royal hunt at last arrives with all its pomp and circumstance to help them.’

  Joe caught a note of disapproval in his voice. ‘Aren’t they doing the right thing, Colin?’

  ‘Let’s say I’d do it another way! I’d go in quietly with Edgar – wouldn’t even take you, Joe! – and a handful of picked bearers, take our time and finish the job cleanly. The most efficient way to get a tiger is to simply locate his kill – not difficult if you’ve provided the goat or the young buffalo yourself – follow the drag and sit over it until he comes back for the rest the next day. It doesn’t always go according to plan – tigers are clever and their senses are about ten times more acute than ours. You start out in the forest with the assumption that they are tracking you and they are much more skilful at it.’

  ‘Sounds terrifying!’ said Joe, unable to restrain a shudder.

  ‘It can be. And I’ll tell you the most frightening thing – when you’ve gone alone into the forest after a man-eater, your senses are telling you he’s close and you’re following his tracks . . . you wind around between rocks and suddenly you realize you’ve been led in a circle because there, in front of you, are your own prints. And – superimposed on the top of your prints are the tiger’s own. He’s behind you.’

  ‘I think I’d prefer the maharaja’s way,’ said Joe. ‘A hundred elephants and a division of heavily armed sportsmen.’

  Colin grimaced. ‘It goes against the grain to attempt what should be a surgical operation with all the panoply of a staged royal hunt. They’ve prepared the elephants and sent them off into the forest already. All the gear and supplies went with them. Your gun case is even now being lovingly put into your tent, Joe! Along with the Fortnum & Mason’s hamper. We’re to go out by motor car or horse – take your pick – and meet up with the elephants a mile or two from what I think must be the tiger’s hiding place.’

  ‘We’re to camp there?’ Joe asked. ‘Out in the jungle?’

  Colin laughed. ‘Edgar, didn’t you tell me this chap had survived four years on the front? After a damp dug-out in the Flanders mud, Joe, I think you’ll find you have nothing to complain of! Your own tent, cooks and stewards on hand and no one shooting at you. They’re well used to putting on shows like this. The Viceroy himself sometimes spends a week here in March between his stints in Delhi and Simla.’

  He began to draw on the map. ‘Now, look, this here’s a sort of funnel, wide end to the west.’

  ‘A nullah?’ offered Joe.

  ‘Right. It’s a narrow valley within striking distance of all three villages. There’s a stream from a spring in the hillside running down the middle and it widens out as you go . . . to about a hundred and fifty yards. Steep banks to north and south. It’s about a mile from beginning to end and thickly screened by tall grasses on either side. Elephant grass – reaching twelve feet in some places. This tiger has chosen well. Beyond the grass there are trees. A fringe of large trees. Now at this narrow eastern end, twenty yards across, no more, there’s a sort of rocky ledge with an overhang right by a water-hole and that’s where I’m guessing the tiger has its den. Tigers don’t relish the heat – they like to cool off with a good wallow, like anyone else. And water’s essential to them – I’ve known tigers drag their kill for miles to take a drink before settling down to eat. I began to follow the tracks of this one up the valley but had to leave off because the light was going but I’ll bet my boots that’s where she is. It’s within earshot of the villages. She can hear when the buffalo are being led out, she can hear the women chattering to each other in the fields, she can hear the children shouting.’

  ‘Colin, I don’t think elephants crashing about in this small area are going to be much of a help,’ Edgar said.

  ‘No, they’re not. I thought we’d join them in camp, admire their decorations, go for a ride to impress Joe, take a few photographs of him lording it in the howdah for his mates back home. Then we’ll tether them and go in on foot.’

  He pointed to the trees he’d drawn along the sides of the valley. ‘I’ve had some machans fixed in the trees. That’s a wooden shooting platform, Joe. Well above tiger-leaping height and giving good cover. Beaters will be here . . . here . . . and here . . . covering both sides of the valley and the narrow end. They’ll start well away from the guns and will close in slowly, making a hideous racket!’

  He gave each of them a meaning look and went on, ‘I’m sure you both appreciate that this outing has its political aspect and we have to accommodate that, so the placing of the participants is somewhat sensitive. I’ve put Bahadur in the first tree over here nearest to the den so that the new heir can have the first shot when the tigress, disturbed by the noise, starts to escape down the nullah. I’ve put Shubhada on the same machan. She’s a good shot and very cool-headed. He won’t feel he’s being patronized and protected if he’s sharing with a woman but she will be quietly looking out for his safety, you can be sure.’

  ‘Is that entirely safe?’ Edgar asked.

  Colin grunted. ‘Nothing’s ever guaranteed in a tiger hunt but I was firmly told by Udai no less that it would be a very good idea if Bahadur were to come back from the outing with his first tiger skin. And bagging this particular one will go down very well with the people of course. Be an auspicious start to the reign and all that. Ajit Singh was not best pleased either and insisted on sharing the platform with the heir but he’s been overruled. I suspect by Bahadur himself. Anyway, I’ve put Ajit on the machan opposite . . . here. It’s about a hundred yards away across the nullah.’

  ‘And who’s this here on the tree to the left of Bahadur?’ Edgar asked.

  ‘That’s Claude – I have checked all this out with the Resident, by the way. He’s a good shot, they say, but not experienced with tiger. And opposite Claude – and you’ll notice the machans are all a little splayed so no one is shooting directly at anyone else (don’t want any nasty accidents) – I’ve put you, Edgar.’

  ‘So this last one at the end of the nullah on the south side is my tree?’ said Joe.

  ‘Yes,’ said Colin, pencilling in a J. ‘Look on yourself as backstop. If the five other guns fail you’ll have to uphold the honour of the Met. But I’m not expecting it to get past Bahadur. Just to the left of his machan, you see . . .’ He drew in a dotted line running from the stream bed to the south side of the nullah. ‘. . . is a game track. It joins the bank where a landslide has fetched down enough rubble to make a neat little exit out of the valley. I’m betting our tiger will try to sneak out of the valley by the nearest path the moment the balloon goes up. Either way, Bahadur will get a good shot at it.’

  ‘And where will you be, Colin? We seem to have run out of trees.’

  ‘Oh, here, there and everywhere. I’ll be on foot, coordinating the beaters. Plugging any gaps . . . nervously checking she doesn’t surprise us all by doubling back and breaking through the cordon, with dire results . . . that sort of thing.’

  He smiled encouragingly at Joe whose concern was beginning to show. ‘I’m not going to say “Don’t worry” – that would always be the last piece of advice I’d give! Worry like hell! A desperate and clever tiger on the loose, six guns pointing God knows where and half a village out, armed with sticks and old swords . . . I can tell you, Joe, it’s a nightma
re! All I can say is – I’ve never yet had a fatality or an accident, however slight, on one of my shoots. That’s as far as I can go with a guarantee, I’m afraid.’

  ‘That’s good enough for me,’ said Joe, instinctively trusting the old hunter and liking his honesty. ‘And, who knows? I might surprise you all! There might be a head labelled “Sandiland’s Tiger” in the trophy room or wherever they keep them before the week’s out.’

  ‘There’s a whole wall of them in the silah-khana. Show him the armoury, Edgar, on your way back through the palace. Might encourage him. Now, a nightcap before you go? I’m planning an early start tomorrow morning, by the way. In the cars, wheels turning by seven o’clock. I expect the ruler will be very relieved to see the back of us for a few days. It’s been difficult for him, this last bit. And the thing he needs least at the moment is a contingent of Europeans cluttering up the palace.’

  ‘Send them off into the moffussil!’ said Edgar. ‘And the fewer who return, the better!’

  ‘Something like that,’ said Colin uncertainly.

  It had been a good evening, Joe thought. He had said little, content to be entertained by the two old friends who yarned the hours away retelling well-known stories for Joe’s benefit, but at last he set off back along the dark lakeside path, Edgar steering his way by the light of an enormous amber moon and the small, twinkling lights of the houses along the water’s edge. Joe paused, holding his breath to see the magical white lamplit outline of Shubhada’s pavilion reflected in the still water. Forest creatures were about and he heard their furtive movements, their occasional throaty warnings. He stood, entranced, listening to the unexpected song of a night bird, a liquid golden stream of sound from the branches overhead.

  ‘Himalayan song-thrush,’ said Edgar, prosaically. ‘Always the first to say good morning and the last to say goodnight. Now come on, Joe, step out! If you want to take a look at the armoury before you turn in.’

  Edgar threw open the door of the armoury and switched on the lights with the confidence of one who had the undisputed entrée and, with a wide gesture, invited Joe to inspect the room’s contents. It seemed to him to be half trophy room, half museum of Rajput militaria from a bygone age. He commented firstly on the rows of tiger and leopard heads since this seemed to be expected of him. Rank upon rank and, apart from a small marker identifying the hunter and the date of the kill, indistinguishable one from the other, they glowered down at him. All snarled defiantly, all had bright glass eyes which reflected back the light bulbs from their black pupils, following him around the room in a disconcerting way.

  The centre of the room was occupied by the stuffed body of a superb tiger, its coat, in spite of its experiences at the hands of the hunter and the taxidermist, deep and thick, shining with an illusion of health. Joe could not hold himself back from running a hand along the sleek pelt, wondering at the massive size of the animal.

  ‘Winter coat, that’s why it’s so thick,’ said Edgar. ‘Udai shot it himself a couple of years ago. His last tiger. Big one – ten foot six, nose to tail.’

  ‘I can see why Colin prefers to go hunting with a camera,’ said Joe to annoy Edgar. ‘It’s against nature to turn a gun on such a fine creature for no good reason.’

  Edgar looked at him, disbelieving. ‘Hunting’s a good reason,’ he commented briefly. ‘Come and look at the weaponry. Imagine having to face one of these without the advantage of a big-game rifle and a hundred yards between you. Up close, staring it in the eye, thirty stone of powerful muscle launching itself at you, feeling its breath on your face and nothing more than one of these in your hand!’ He pointed out the rows of lances lined up along a wall. To Joe they looked fearsome enough. And the displays of vicious curved talwars, longswords and pig-sticking spears made him shudder.

  Edgar gave a sly grin. ‘Not your scene exactly, is it, Joe? All right. I’ll let you off the other exhibits!’ He waved a hand at a series of large glass cases. ‘Torture instruments, bits of gladiatorial gear. All in use until a few years ago, I’m told. And all very interesting. Rather far-sighted of Udai to preserve it, you’d say. Would have been all too easy to dispose of it in the name of modernity but that’s Rajputs for you – very conscious of their past and proud of it.’

  They turned the lights off and left. Joe shuddered, his imagination telling him that this was not a room in which he would have enjoyed finding himself alone after dark. But his tour was not yet over. Remorselessly, Edgar opened the door of the next room along the passageway. ‘Here you are, you see, in complete contrast – could you have anything more up to the minute than this?’

  ‘This’ was a lavishly decorated shrine to the game of snooker. In the centre of the room, standing like a huge altar, a snooker table (though the word was inadequate for such a structure) gleamed in gold-embossed mahogany. In an echo of the ranks of lances next door, snooker cues were lined up against the walls in racks and scoreboards were fastened to leather-lined panels.

  ‘Most impressive,’ said Joe. ‘We must have a game sometime. And I’ll wear Sir George’s jacket in deference to the sumptuous surroundings. Anything less sartorially sensational would smack of disrespect!’

  ‘Do you have to talk like a music hall MC?’ grumbled Edgar.

  ‘It must be all this mahogany and red plush,’ Joe muttered.

  ‘Well, thanks, Edgar, for the tour,’ said Joe as they arrived in front of his suite. ‘Now go and get an early night, old man. Remember we have a brisk start in the morning.’

  With a sigh of relief he went into his room, loosening his tie, kicking off his shoes, hurling his jacket in the direction of the wardrobe and making for the bathroom. He was glad he’d had the forethought to tell his valet to stand down; he didn’t feel up to an appraisal by Govind’s bland but all-seeing eye. There were many things he was unable to come by in India and solitude was one of them. With pleasure he ran his own bath and wallowed in the water, then stood naked and dripping wet on the marble floor for several minutes until he could imagine himself cool again before drying off.

  There was a light tap on the door. Joe sighed and tucked a towel round his waist. He waited, expecting Govind to come in to check he had all he needed. The tap was repeated. Cursing to himself he went to the door and opened it. There was a rush of scented air as Madeleine ducked under his arm and dashed into the centre of the room. She looked excited and determined and she was holding out a brown foolscap envelope for him to see. Joe groaned.

  ‘Got it! Didn’t I tell you I’d do it! But you weren’t really listening, were you, Joe?’

  ‘Good Lord, Madeleine! What have you got there? Your “ticket out of here”, I think you said . . . you see, I was listening! Is that it? I want you to tell me quickly and then buzz off, will you? You’ve already ruined my reputation irreparably!’

  Madeleine rolled her eyes. ‘Your reputation! Joe, you squeal louder than a virgin in the Black Sox dressing room! No one saw me come. I was very careful. And I thought you’d be interested to see what I have here!’

  With shining eyes she handed over the envelope. Resentful of his own curiosity, Joe opened it and slid out several printed legal documents. It was a few moments before he could work out what he held in his hand but when the import of the papers hit him he sat down abruptly on the edge of his bed, clutching them in a damp hand.

  ‘What the hell, Madeleine!’

  ‘Thought you’d be impressed!’

  He leafed through the package silently adding up figures in his head.

  ‘A million? Have I got that right? A million dollars’ worth of bearer bonds, stock certificates, title deeds . . . All instantly negotiable, I notice. Now . . . the question is – do I want to know how you came by them?’

  ‘Well, since you ask so prettily, I’ll tell you! The ruler gave them to me this afternoon. I think he’s glad to pay me off and get rid of me.’

  ‘And what did you offer to do in return?’

  ‘It’s what I offered not to do that got his attentio
n and triggered his generosity!’ she grinned.

  She left Joe riffling in disbelief once more through the documents and poured out two glasses of tonic water from the tray laid ready. She handed one to Joe and sat down by his side. Her triumphant good humour was hard to resist.

  ‘Let me guess . . . you promised not to reveal what Prithvi had been getting up to in the States, I begin to think most probably with his father’s connivance?’

  She looked at him in some surprise. ‘Why . . . yes . . . something very like that. Say – you really can put it together, can’t you?’

  ‘Let’s start a bit nearer the beginning, shall we? I did wonder exactly what Prithvi was doing in an obscure part of the southern states . . . Texas, was it? . . . when he met you. Now, looking at these, I think I can guess!’

  She nodded. ‘He’d been in Florida. Know where that is, Joe?’

  ‘Vaguely. Carry on.’

  ‘He’d been sent over to the States as his father’s agent. His financial agent. Things had not been going too well, cash-wise, in Ranipur for years.’ She paused, wondering how far she should confide state secrets, he guessed.

  ‘I had worked that out,’ he said encouragingly. ‘Years of drought, the mines running out, crippling of the lucrative trade routes, depopulation, over-taxation, enforced contributions to the war in Europe . . . I could go on! The signs are all there to be read by anyone with eyes to see. In an earlier century they would have taken up arms against another state on some pretext or none and simply stolen their treasure but this is no longer an option allowed under the Raj. And the clues that indicate the coffers are bare are the unfinished projects and the calculatedly spectacular pieces of extravagance – hocus-pocus to hide the true state of the princedom.’