The Palace Tiger

by Barbara Cleverly

  There was something underlying Colin’s sadness that invited Joe to ask, ‘Something you said, Colin?’

  He seemed relieved to be prompted to say, ‘Yes, you all heard me. Ticked him off in front of everyone. Last thing I ever said to him. Told him not to fool about with his whistle.’

  ‘Sounded entirely reasonable to me,’ said Joe. ‘The lad was a bit overexcited . . . could have caused havoc. But was there something behind the warning?’

  ‘Yes, there was. He’d been larking about in the night. Surprised you didn’t hear anything, Joe?’

  ‘I did hear . . . things,’ said Joe. ‘Go on.’

  ‘Well, I’d taken the precaution of leaving a night watch on duty. Oh, they didn’t enter the camp – their brief was to discreetly patrol the perimeter. So I was surprised when one of the chaps woke me up at three in the morning. He said there was a problem in front of the tents. Couldn’t work out what it was but a large patch of something white, shining in the moonlight, had caught his attention. He thought I ought to investigate. We went along and found that the ground between Claude’s tent and the one opposite – Captain Mercer’s, I think – an area of four by four yards – had been strewn with flour.’

  ‘Flour?’ The doctor was astonished, Joe less so.

  ‘Did you alert anyone?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, we did. Got poor old Claude out of bed. Couldn’t understand what was going on but when he twigged, he was prepared to put the blame on Bahadur for a particularly pointless practical joke.’

  ‘What steps did you take?’

  ‘Sent for a broom and brushed it away as best we could and then, egged on by Claude, we did something I’ll always regret. Turned into schoolboys ourselves. Must have been the full moon, the spirit of camaraderie . . . I don’t know what. It was Claude’s suggestion. He was spitting angry and determined to teach the boy a lesson but all the same I should have put the lid on it.’

  ‘Colin, what did you do?’

  Colin swallowed, his head drooped and he said softly, ‘Claude took the flour we’d swept up and spread it in front of Bahadur’s tent. Then we faked up a trail of enormous tiger paw prints marching straight up to the door – the old pebble in hanky trick.’ He looked at Joe, stricken, tears in his eyes. ‘It wouldn’t have fooled him for half a minute! He’d been out in the jungle with me many times and I’d taught him all I know about tracking – even the tricks! He would have recognized it as such in no time at all and, I would have thought, erupted with laughter. That would have been normal. He liked a joke.’

  Joe’s mind was absorbing these details, unpleasant with hindsight, and linking them with facts he remembered himself from the night before. ‘Colin, was anyone else aware of what you and Claude had done? What Bahadur had done?’

  ‘Hard to say because I was rushing about liaising with the lead mahout by then and not really thinking about practical jokes. The lad got up late and by the time he came to breakfast I think everyone must have seen it. Assumed it was one of his own pranks, I suppose, rolled their eyes and passed on – I’m describing the actual reaction of – Madeleine, I think it was . . . yes . . . Madeleine. She laughed and said, oh, something like: “I see the man-eater dropped in for a midnight feast.” Surprised to hear the detective hadn’t noticed though?’

  ‘I was more wakeful at the other end of the night,’ said Joe. ‘And I too made a late appearance. He’d had time to get rid of it by then.’ He was reconstructing Bahadur’s puzzling remark. Something about springing a trap set by Bahadur the great hunter, he remembered.

  ‘You shouldn’t put on a hair shirt for all this, Colin,’ he said. ‘Not your fault. But it is someone’s fault. Someone who very nearly got away with murder and who, if it hadn’t been for Hector’s thoroughness, undoubtedly would have done. Because you were fooled, Colin, Edgar was fooled and I was fooled.’

  ‘Fooled you may claim to have been, Joe,’ said Hector, ‘but it’s going to be up to you to make some sense of all this. I must say I can’t make head or tail of it. All I know is that the third heir is dead in our care and there’ll be hell to pay when we get back!’

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Riders had been dispatched ahead of the rest of the group to break the news at the palace. Shubhada had insisted on going with them, claiming it was her duty to speak to the maharaja first. No one was eager to contest this dubious privilege though, dutifully, Claude offered to escort her himself. His services were finally accepted with rather bad grace, Joe thought, and the advance party set off in the grey dawn.

  The return journey was uncomfortable, spent tête-à-tête with Edgar who went over the previous day’s events again and again, trying to work out why it should all have gone so hideously wrong. Was it possible to mistrust a man who had saved your life twice in as many months? Joe wondered, his instincts to confide the minimum to Edgar very strong. In the end, Edgar’s repeated expressions of concern for his old friend Colin and the damage the death of Bahadur might do both to the man and to his reputation, persuaded him to tell Edgar about the doctor’s findings.

  ‘So you see, there was very little Colin could have done to prevent it . . . if, indeed, it was a case of murder as Sir Hector has made out. Can a hunt manager be expected to take as a factor in his arrangements the possibility that one of the shikari will murder another one? I don’t think so. The shoot went according to plan – well, almost.’

  ‘And, apart from the inquisitive doctor, the murder too. Admit it, Joe, that was a piece of ice-cold planning combined with a recklessness that makes your hair stand on end. Who the hell would have been able to do that? Who is so ruthless that they’d stab a child in the throat? Who would have had the opportunity? You and I had each other in our sights for the whole time from the bugle to the whistle, you might say, so we can rule each other out, I think.’

  ‘It’s not quite that clear,’ said Joe grimly. ‘I heard what I thought was a langur bark a warning about half an hour before the bugle blew. But, thinking about it later, I realize that the monkeys in my tree didn’t respond. They knew it wasn’t one of their own tribe. I think it may have been Bahadur’s attempted call for help . . . or his death cry. If someone killed the boy well before the hunt started, he would have had plenty of time to get back to his tree . . . or his position . . . not everyone was on a machan . . . before the tigress started her run down the nullah. Let’s imagine the scene, Edgar. Now, let’s assume you’re the villain for a moment.’

  Joe brushed aside his spluttered protests. ‘You get up into your tree, having had the forethought to take up there with you a pair of gloves and a blanket – standard issue on each of the hunt elephants – and immediately everyone is settled you climb down again armed with these bits of equipment and a knife of some sort – not the skinning knife from the howdah, I think – too broad. Then you weave your way, easy for a tracker like yourself to do (I believe even I could have managed), between the clumps of tall grasses back across the nullah. With everyone’s eyes glued to their own sector, you could have done it. Half an hour is plenty of time to get to Bahadur’s tree. You call up to him to come down on some pretext. He trusts you and comes down while Shubhada’s back is turned. Perhaps it’s your lucky day and you don’t even need to trick him into coming down; perhaps, nervously, like the rest of us, he becomes obsessed with the idea of having a pee and comes down for that purpose –’

  ‘Joe, I won’t interrupt again but I have to say – there was a patch of damp soil near the body as though someone had done exactly that. I thought at the time it corroborated Shubhada’s story.’

  ‘So you were already thinking at that time that people’s stories might need corroboration, Edgar? That’s interesting.’

  Edgar grunted in a non-committal way and Joe went on, ‘So, the kid is standing in the undergrowth with his back to you. With your gloves on and the blanket tucked in front of you to soak up any blood splashes, you aim to put a hand over his mouth and plunge the dagger into his neck. Aware at the last mome
nt that something’s not right, the lad screams and tries – almost makes it – to pull the revolver out of his waistband. But you prevail. When you think he’s dead you roll up the blanket and gloves – if you’ve been careful you might not have needed them anyway – and, and what . . .?’

  ‘Throw them away in the underbrush? No one searched the area more than ten feet away from the body and they were never going to – no reason. Stow them away on a tree, bundle them up, take them away with you and put them on the campfire? I’d have hidden them at the bottom of Bahadur’s funeral pyre,’ offered Edgar helpfully.

  ‘Yes, you would,’ said Joe. ‘And in London I’d have a squad of blokes checking whether those items went missing and whether any of the howdahs had traces of blood in them, but how the hell at this distance do we find out? The men will be half-way back to the palace or dismissed and gone home to their village. So little time at the crime scene because, as far as everyone’s concerned, it’s not a crime scene. Perhaps we should have made Ajit aware?’

  ‘I’m sure he never travels without his thumbscrews. You know very well why you didn’t tell Ajit!’

  ‘Yes. The murder was committed either by a European or by Ajit himself. An investigation likely to give even him pause! He might, for the sake of appearances, have aggressively interviewed a few beaters, roughed up a cook or two . . . who knows? . . . some poor sod might have been given a free one-way ticket to the capital.’

  Edgar replied thoughtfully, ‘You underestimate Ajit. And that’s always a mistake. But let’s look again, shall we, from the obvious angle. Who had the opportunity?’

  ‘Anyone who was within a mile at the time,’ said Joe despondently. ‘So that’s the five people mounted on the machans, Colin who was roaming around . . . Madeleine and Stuart? Where were they, by the way? Back in camp? If so, that rules them out.’

  ‘No. In fact, they came along too. I heard them arguing about it before we all climbed aboard our elephants. Stuart wanted to see the action and asked for another elephant to be brought round. Madeleine didn’t want to go but he was persuading her, I think, by the time we all set off. They could have been cruising about anywhere in the vicinity. A word to the mahout to let one or both of them down for a minute . . . Problem – now why on earth would Stuart or Madeleine want Bahadur dead? Doubt they even knew him and they could in no way profit from his death.’

  With vivid memories of his night with Madeleine, Joe was silent and it was a moment before he replied. ‘Of course, we’d know more if anyone had bothered to interview the mahouts. But how could you? This is Ajit’s territory and we were investigating a tiger slaying after all.’

  Edgar asked thoughtfully, ‘And aren’t you inclined to think that’s exactly what we are dealing with? Joe, you don’t suppose the doc could have got this wrong, do you?’

  It was with strong feelings of foreboding that Joe passed in the Dodge under the elephant gate and into the courtyard. Govind was waiting for him holding a slip of paper on a silver tray. A summons! Already! His heart sank.

  ‘A message, sahib, from Sir George Jardine. He has been trying to contact you by telephone and sends strict instructions that the moment you arrived back you were to speak to him on this number.’ Joe took the sheet of paper.

  ‘I’m coming with you,’ Edgar announced and, despite Joe’s objections, insisted on accompanying him.

  They followed Govind to the communications room, where a telephone sat in splendour and state in the centre of a mahogany table. Govind pushed a chair towards Joe, found another for Edgar and bowed out of the room. Joe set out his police notebook and a pencil on the table, wiped his sweating palms on the knees of his trousers and picked up the handset. He asked the voice at the other end to connect him with the Simla number. Moments later Sir George’s voice erupted down the phone. Joe winced and held the receiver a little way from his ear. He wondered whether he would ever find the words to convince George that loud-hailer techniques were not necessary when using this modern equipment. He realized that Edgar would be able to hear every word.

  ‘There you are, my boy! Glad you could at last get yourself to a telephone. Now Edgar managed to find the ops room three days ago or I wouldn’t yet know that Prithvi Singh had all too literally bitten the dust.’

  ‘I’m sorry, sir, it’s been rather hectic over here . . .’ Joe embarked on an embarrassed apology.

  ‘So I hear. Those chess moves tax a fellow’s stamina. Lucky that Edgar found the resilience and the time to file his report.’

  ‘Before we go any further, sir, I should perhaps tell you that Edgar is himself at my side as we speak.’

  ‘Well, that’s nothing but good news. Saves me making a further phone call. I’ll speak up. Now then, suddenly, this morning I find the news of Prithvi’s death presents me with rather a problem. A problem of etiquette.’

  ‘Etiquette?’ said Joe, startled. ‘We too have our problems not unconnected with Prithvi’s death, sir, but I wouldn’t have said that protocol featured particularly in our –’

  ‘Yes, I’m sure, and you can tell me all about them in a moment. Now listen, Joe. On Tuesday night the good Edgar telephones me saying that the second heir to the throne has been killed. Now – not sure where you’ve got to down there but it’s Friday in Simla – yesterday, while you were all away chasing tigers, I received a missive from the maharaja. Sent, quite properly, by special messenger. It had been sealed and dispatched the day before Prithvi died. Quite extraordinary and – I’m sure you’ll agree – significant. It contained official advance notice of the betrothal of the prince’s second son Prithvi Singh to . . . what’s the girl’s name . . .’ Papers rustled and George began again, ‘Princess Nirmala, one of the daughters of Mewar state. Sensible move. An alliance between Ranipur and Mewar would, of course, always be interesting to His Majesty’s Government. Preliminary announcement and all that to assess our reaction to the forthcoming marriage. A fixture set for next month, I’m informed. Polite of him to let me know . . . all very correct . . . but you see my problem, Joe. Do I reply to this, causing hurt and offence, or do I tear it up and send my condolences on a death of which I have not yet been officially informed, possibly causing hurt and offence. Advise me.’

  ‘George! I had no idea! No one has mentioned this, not even his first wife . . .’ said Joe, reeling at the information.

  ‘Ah, yes, the fan-dancer. Is she still about the place?’

  ‘She is.’

  ‘Well, they couldn’t have kept it quiet for much longer but as the poor chap died before anything could come of it, they’ll want to keep it to themselves for the princess’s sake. Very Rajput. Wouldn’t want her name spoken of in harness with that of someone who’s no longer with us – could be damaging to her future prospects. With a bit of luck they’ll have been able to cancel the invitation cards. Anyway, I’ll hold fire for a day or two, see what transpires, what? Now tell me what you’ve been up to.’

  Wearily, Joe started on his concise account of events since his arrival in Ranipur. Sir George listened so quietly Joe once or twice had to check that the line had not been cut. Finally George asked, ‘Is it too early to ask if by any chance you’ve come up with a solution to these mysteries? Three deaths? Any idea who’s behind all this?’

  ‘Yes. I have. Yes, I really think I have,’ he said. ‘Now that the evidence is in. I’d like a little more time to clarify things,’ he finished uncertainly.

  ‘Quite a puzzle, I agree,’ said Sir George, ‘but, look here, I think at least I can help you out with 3 across. Still got Edgar with you?’

  ‘Yes, he’s here.’

  ‘Right. He’s just the chap you need. Put him on for a minute, will you?’

  Joe passed the earpiece to Edgar but heard every word of Sir George’s commands before he signed off.

  ‘Edgar, can you find your way to the silah-khana?’

  ‘Of course, Sir George.’

  ‘Then take young Sandilands there at once. You’re to show him the baghna
kh. See if it gives him a few ideas.’

  Edgar hung up the receiver with a hand shaking with excitement, his expression one of stunned amazement. ‘The baghnakh! The bloody baghnakh! That’s how he did it!’

  In the irritating way of a conjuror who is determined to hang on to his surprise until the last dramatic moment, Edgar would say no more but hurried along the corridors until they arrived at a door Joe recognized. The armoury.

  They slipped inside, having checked that they were unobserved, and Edgar switched on the lights. ‘Now, Sandilands, remember turning down my invitation to view the gladiatorial exhibits, the other night? This time you can’t refuse. George’s orders.’

  ‘Stop being so bloody mysterious and get on with it!’ Joe snapped.

  Edgar approached a glass case and lifted the lid. ‘Ah. Both still in there, I see. Probably nothing in it but you can see what George was getting at. Hideous, hideous things! Baghnakhs! Sorry but there’s no word for them in English. Wouldn’t want one. The sound of the Hindi says it all, I think.’

  Joe was looking at twin objects. Two huge paws of a tiger had been mounted on short thick handles. Joe shuddered. ‘What the hell are they for, Edgar?’

  ‘Well, they’re not back-scratchers. They’re for killing. What else? They were used as weapons in gladiatorial combats. There’s a rather lurid account by a Western traveller, top-brass, staying as the guest of a maharaja who staged some fights for his entertainment, boxing, wrestling and so on. For the grand finale, a couple of stout chaps appeared armed with these things and started hacking chunks out of each other. The guest was so sickened by the performance, especially when he was hit in the face by a gobbet of flying flesh, that he called a halt.’

  Joe was not deceived by Edgar’s insensitive delivery. He thought it masked a horror he would not have been capable of articulating. He took one of the weapons from its place and turned it over. They looked at it carefully. ‘Good Lord – it’s the size of a dessert plate but nothing untoward there, I think,’ said Joe. ‘Seems to have all its claws. Try the other one.’