The Palace Tiger

by Barbara Cleverly

  But Claude was not to be drawn into a discussion. Before he took a step further from Claude, Joe resolved to throw himself backwards on to the gun. If he absorbed the first bullet it would give Edgar a chance to act. He tensed his muscles. Feet slightly apart, he eased his weight on to the balls of his feet. And then he heard a cynical bark of laughter from behind.

  ‘Power? Love? For how long? This is a sinking ship we’re all on! Haven’t you worked that out yet, Mr Detective? Have you any idea what the rewards are in this post? An insult! I may earn a little more than they pay a second-eleven character like you for keeping the streets of London clear of filth but not much. Rise as high as you like – it’s hardly worth the effort. And what do we look forward to when the Raj finally packs its bags and slopes off back to the West? A small pension, a modest house overlooking the South Downs? Perhaps I could call it Ranipur Lodge and have an elephant’s foot umbrella stand in the hall next to the Benares brass dinner gong? I would treat my friends to a chota peg before tiffin and bore them rigid with stories that start, “When I was in Poona . . .”’ He spoke with bitter emphasis.

  ‘No. That’s not for me. My horizons are wider, my ambitions deeper. But I see it’s for you, Sandilands, or could be if you had any time left. Edgar – he’s too old a leopard to change his spots so I won’t make the mistake of making him an offer. What would you like? A bangle each to look the other way for an hour? Easier to shoot you both dead and be done with it.’

  ‘It’s not too late. Give me the gun and I’ll arrange for you to withdraw discreetly,’ said Joe. ‘It’s not as if there was anything in those pots anyway. And when you leave, empty-handed, you’ll run into Ajit Singh who’s waiting outside.’

  An impatient sigh greeted this attempt. ‘Clown! Two hours ago when I came to check, there were emeralds and rubies the size of pigeon’s eggs and that’s for starters.’

  Now that he had his targets standing close together on the opposite side of the room, Claude, still covering them, moved over to the coffers and tapped the lid of the central one. ‘You can plunge your arm into a king’s ransom. Far more than I need to complete my plans.’

  ‘Sorry, old man!’ said Edgar, gloating. ‘That was two hours ago. You don’t think Ajit Singh stands still, do you? A good deal can happen in two hours. The whole lot has been carted off. Why do you suppose they only left one elderly guard by the door? It’s a trap to lure you in! And here you are – trapped! Don’t be a bloody fool and give up everything for a not-so-lucky dip into an empty bran-tub!’

  Sneering, Claude lifted the lid with his left hand and plunged it into the coffer. They watched, fascinated, as his sneer turned into a grimace of astonishment and then a rictus of horror. He pulled out a hand dripping with precious stones which caught the flickering light and reflected it back in a dazzle of colour. With a shuddering cry, Claude dropped the necklaces on the floor. One item remained hanging from his hand. Not glowing. Not reflecting the light. A wriggling dark shape. About a foot long.

  The boom of the small Browning M was ear-shattering in the small space. Eyes riveted on Claude, Joe had barely noticed Edgar’s quick snatch to the back of his belt. The small black gun which he had last seen clutched in Bahadur’s hand was hardly visible in Edgar’s huge fist but its fire power was undeniable.

  Claude stood, his body shaking with horror, his eyes unable to leave his left hand which still clutched the remnants of the object shattered by Edgar’s shot. Finally he found his voice. ‘What the hell was that?’

  ‘A krait,’ said Edgar calmly. ‘Looked like a krait to me. Young one. But just as lethal.’

  ‘Help me, for God’s sake!’

  ‘No one could help you. You know that,’ said Edgar without expression. ‘Ten times as venomous as a cobra. You’ve landed right in the mulligatawny, old man.’

  ‘How long have I got?’

  ‘Ten minutes? A quarter of an hour?’

  Claude staggered to the door. Raising his revolver he fired three shots into the air, paused and then two more. He came back into the room and faced them, waving his gun carelessly. He smiled his lopsided boyish smile. ‘One shot left. Whose shall it be?’ he asked. The barrel wavered over Joe and then over Edgar and finally he raised it to his own forehead. ‘Fifteen more minutes of your company, gentlemen? I think not.’

  With an agility Joe had no idea he possessed, Edgar leapt on to Claude and knocked the gun from his hand.

  ‘Edgar! What the hell!’ said Joe. ‘For God’s sake, let him go cleanly!’

  ‘Sorry, Joe. I’d much rather he didn’t have any bullet holes in him when we haul his carcase back to Delhi. Death by natural causes, misadventure, whatever you like to call it. Anyone can get themselves killed by a krait out here. No explanation necessary. Just stay put for a few minutes. We’ll wait for him to die.’

  Seeing his implacable face Joe understood Sir George’s game. Send in Sandilands to sniff out the troublemakers and leave it to Edgar to make sure they are not left lying around in an untidy state to embarrass the Raj. Udai Singh had suggested as much before he died. ‘We plan our last hunt, Edgar.’

  ‘No. You can wait for him to die! Those shots he fired were a signal. I’m going to find out who was listening for them.’

  Joe ran with Ajit back towards the palace, panting out an explanation as they ran, ashamed that although he had twenty years of youth on his side, he could barely keep up with the Rajput’s loping stride. With lungs that threatened to implode at any second, Joe was relieved to be called to a halt by Ajit.

  ‘Listen!’ He pointed to the airfield.

  ‘A plane? Starting up? But who the hell?’

  ‘So that is how he was planning to leave!’ said Ajit triumphantly.

  ‘But Ajit . . . didn’t you say you’d drained all the fuel out of the planes?’

  ‘That is true. But . . .’ He paused and looked consideringly at Joe then with a narrow smile went on, ‘I left enough in the two-seater, if anyone were careless enough not to check, or in too great a hurry, to allow the pilot to take off and fly . . .’ He hesitated again and then finished, ‘. . . for a mile or two.’

  Anger and despair sent Joe running on again, screaming uselessly to the pilot to stop. Of course he could not be heard above the din of the engine and the whirring of the propellers but he went on, shouting and waving his arms. As he neared the airfield, the plane gathered itself to make its dash down the runway and he looked on hopelessly as the figure in the rear seat caught sight of him and gave back a laconic wave. A black stocking mask covered the head, the obscene pigtail streaming out behind as the plane gathered speed.

  Ajit had been joined by Ram and a squad of men who ran about quietly and purposefully. In no time saddled horses appeared and Ajit invited Joe to ride with him into the desert stretching ahead of the plane. Dry-mouthed and exhausted, Joe hung on, for the first time in his life unable to enjoy riding a horse. After one mile at a gallop the horses were still going strong but the plane was getting well ahead of them. Joe found he was praying that by some magic it would stay in the sky. Perhaps a store of spare fuel had been found? There was no change of engine note, no sound of distress from the plane. Joe would have liked to call a halt to this mad dash into the desert but Ajit rode on, firm as a rock in the saddle, the gleam of the hunter in his eye.

  A further mile out and the horses were beginning to blow when Joe heard the sound he had dreaded. A cough from the plane ahead. A splutter of protest and it began to fall from the sky.

  ‘Glide it down, for God’s sake!’ Joe muttered under his breath. ‘Come on! Pull the nose up, you bloody fool!’

  But with an unshakeable inevitability the plane continued its downward dive. It crashed on to its nose half a mile ahead of them.

  They tethered their horses and approached the wreck carefully, one from each side. They had nothing to fear from the pilot who was lying across the fuselage, neck at a deadly angle. Joe knelt by the cockpit and gently began to roll back the stocking mask, no lo
nger alarming but pathetic. As he tugged it away, the auburn hair of Lois Vyvyan spilled out to cover her bloodstained and shattered face.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  As they rode slowly back to the town Ajit, who had been wrestling with his thoughts, finally asked, ‘Memsahib Vyvyan? But why? How?’

  ‘The how is more straightforward than the why, I think,’ said Joe. ‘Her father, an army officer, was also a member – a founding member, I should guess – of the Royal Flying Corps. The pioneers were mostly army men, amateurs all. He wears the insignia on his army uniform in a photograph she has. She probably learned to fly some years ago in England. She kept it quiet but had a refresher flight or two with Captain Mercer. They tell me it’s quite easy to fly one of these machines . . . But why? Not so easy. She was working with Claude – in fact she could have been the instigator. Think of them as a hunting pair of tigers about the palace, shall we? Disillusioned with their circumstances, fearful for their future prospects and just plain greedy. I think they were prepared to take risks to get away with a fortune and prepared to deceive others along the way.’

  That was as far as he was prepared to go in the delicate matter of the involvement of the widowed Third Her Highness. He could feel no pity for the manipulative princess who had, he thought, been used by the Vyvyans. He remembered his first night at the palace and Lois Vyvyan’s behaviour. While Shubhada had sparkled at the head of the table, Lois had remained quietly in charge. Claude it was who had a reputation for thoroughness but Joe wondered how much of the reputation had been earned for him by his determined and ambitious wife. And the scent which had so intrigued him? Lois herself, he suspected, must have had the cool head to think of taking the precaution of wearing the same perfume as the girl who was intriguing with her husband. She must have been very certain of him, Joe thought. And now, too late, he could understand her behaviour towards himself. Sir George’s envoy and a London policeman at that! Suspicion and anxiety had been bubbling below the surface in all her contacts with him. Small wonder that her tone had been brittle at times.

  They were hailed on their way back by Edgar riding out, accompanied by Ram.

  ‘Who the hell?’ Edgar wanted to know.

  Joe greeted him coldly.

  ‘Lois. It was Lois. So, Edgar, if the krait hadn’t got him, Claude would have crashed with her in the desert. Very satisfactory outcome for His Majesty’s Government, I’m sure you’ll say.’ Edgar turned his horse and, as they rode back, knee to knee, Joe asked angrily, ‘Now perhaps you can tell me what precisely were your instructions from Sir George? Follow Sandilands, wait for him to put up the game and shoot it down?’

  Edgar remained impassive. ‘Something like that. Couldn’t be doing with a bright young spark like Claude, Indian Civil Service at its best, dragged off to Delhi for a show trial. If one Resident can misbehave – how can we ever trust the others? Could ruin the career of many a good chap. Set the hives buzzing in the Chamber of Princes . . . which, I understand, is about to form up for a very important meeting in the near future. A very important meeting. The timing would have been most unfortunate. Political nightmare. Better this way. Satisfactory outcome.’

  ‘Do you think so?’ Joe could not keep the anger out of his voice. ‘From the death of Udai Singh have flowed so many other deaths.’

  ‘Better than the dozens it would have been some decades ago,’ said Edgar crossly. ‘And all can be accounted for in the most plausible way. Accidents do happen in India, after all. Damn dangerous place, I always say. And two of the killers were Westerners, never forget. Accounted for two heirs to the throne and that’s quite a bill to pay. Lucky we have some leverage . . . a few good cards in our hands. We’re fortunate also in that Zalim Singh is left at the end to pick up the pieces.’ He paused but, receiving no response or encouragement from Joe, carried on, ‘But, if it’s luck we’re talking about, I must say I’d like to know the odds on Claude’s putting his thieving hands all unexpected on a krait snake. Lurking in a jewel coffer . . .’

  His voice was heavy with suspicion. He looked at Joe, waiting for a comment.

  Joe thought of Lizzie’s avowal that she would go a long way to protect her charge, Bahadur. He remembered the trust with which the boy had gone off with the hill man, Jaswant. Would their love for the Yuvaraj extend also to revenge when he was beyond their protection? Joe thought it would.

  ‘Yes, wasn’t it?’ he replied. ‘Quite a piece of luck, I mean.’

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Lal Bai was already awake when her maid came to rouse her. She crept to the window, pushing aside the curtain of khas-khas matting, and looked down on to a milky-grey landscape lit only by the sinking moon. It would be two hours before the sun’s rays poured back heat and colour into the world, two hours before the flames of her lord’s funeral pyre leapt skywards to meet and mingle with them.

  She stood for a moment, feeling at one with a world drained of colour, relishing the deep stillness. Across the river a wild dog called from the desert and was answered a moment later by its mate. In two hours their calls would be unheard, swamped by the deluge of sound that would pour from the palace. There would be howling and wailing as never before; the crowds would chant, ‘Ram nam sat hai!’, The name of God is Truth!; drums would beat and the pyre at the burning ghat would be lit at the very moment the sun rose, to the accompaniment of the ruler’s last cannon salute. Nineteen times the big guns would boom out from the elephant gate. Nineteen times, for Udai had been a maharaja, a great ruler. Lal Bai resolved to count the blasts as far as she was able to count.

  Chichi Bai anxiously reminded her that all was ready for her prayer ceremony but first, before puja, she must wash and dress. Silver bowls and copper vessels were laid out, filled with fragrant oils and waters, and numbly Lal Bai offered her head and then her limbs for the ritual cleaning and scented massage. That complete, she put on the bright red silk skirt her maid held out, then the tight bodice and the ganghra. One by one ivory bangles were slipped over her upper arms and gold anklets passed over her hennaed feet for today she chose to appear in the costume of a bride. Finally, Chichi Bai clasped about her mistress’s throat the most precious of her ruby necklaces.

  A thread of saffron intruded into the grey shot silk of the sky. ‘It is the time,’ whispered Chichi Bai and she left her side to glide to the door. An escort of palace servants had assembled outside and formed ranks, silent but sorrowful and agitated. Her maids, in tears, withdrew and went to stand with the other women at the latticed windows. Lal Bai placed herself in the centre of the group ready to join the procession down to the river bank. Once she was safely shielded from the eyes of the interfering ferenghi, they began their funeral chant.

  ‘Ram! Ram!’ Lal Bai began her own chant as the cort`ege moved forward.

  When they reached the courtyard the little procession halted, held back for a moment by the wave of sound that met them. The whole city was assembled in the courtyard and on the staircases down to the river to pay a loud, grief-stricken farewell to Udai Singh. At the burning ghat below them, a torch-bearer stood by the pyre awaiting the body of the ruler. They watched as the bier passed through the elephant gate. Lal Bai’s eyes shone with excitement and longing as she caught her last glimpse of her lord, lying, regal, in ceremonial costume and garlanded with marigolds. All was ready.

  Not quite all. There was one last ritual gesture to be observed before they could move onward. A footman moved forward holding out a pot of ochre. Without stopping her chant, Lal Bai put her right hand into the powder and withdrew it. To the accompaniment of an increasingly fervent chanting from the crowds of mourners who stood back in awe and respect for the determined slight figure, she solemnly went to the wall of the palace by the elephant gate and pressed her red right hand firmly on to the smooth white surface.

  The first of the cannons crashed out its salute and Lal Bai began to count.