by Vaseem Khan
Chopra frowned.
If this was what passed for top security, then it left much to be desired, in his humble opinion.
They stepped through the entrance and into the Central Gallery.
Chopra was intrigued to note that the usual exhibits had been replaced by a collection of objects from the days of the Raj. Ordinarily, the Gallery housed pieces from all eras of India’s past–a jewelled dagger from the court of Shah Jahan; a terracotta lion from the empire of Asoka the Great; a clay seal from the Harappan civilisation inscribed with that enigmatic and as yet undeciphered Indus Valley script.
A frown appeared on his brow as his eyes came to rest on the tacky waxwork models of the British Royal Family that now took pride of place in the gallery. A plump, middle-aged man with sunglasses parked in his heavily oiled hair had his arm slung cosily around ‘The Queen’s’ waist whilst his wife took a photograph of him.
Chopra would have liked to linger over the Raj exhibits but Poppy was already urging him onwards and upwards.
They followed the herd as everyone jostled their way up the marble staircase, past Miniature Paintings and Himalayan Arts, to the second floor where the Sir Ratan Tata Gallery had been commandeered for the Crown Jewels exhibit. Four more Force One guards were stationed outside the newly installed reinforced steel doors that now fronted the gallery. The guards straightened to attention as the visitors arrived, their fingers involuntarily flickering to the triggers of their assault rifles.
Chopra knew that security had been a principal concern as soon as it was announced that–for the first time in their history–the Crown Jewels would leave their native shores and travel abroad with The Queen. He remembered the fuss in the UK earlier in the year when the press had gotten wind of the plan. An ancient law had had to be amended just to permit the jewels to be moved.
It was still unclear exactly why Her Majesty had agreed to the Indian government’s request for the jewels to be exhibited on the subcontinent. The Queen herself had remained tight-lipped on the matter. Chopra, for his part, had always held the monarch in high regard and considered her adherence to traditions emblematic of a bygone age, a time when discretion and good manners were paramount.
Only twenty visitors were permitted inside the Tata Gallery at any one time. They waited impatiently as the previous group filed out, buzzing with excitement.
Chopra shuffled in with the others into the air-conditioned sanctum of the gallery where they were immediately greeted by the sight of two tall, broadly built white gentlemen wielding ceremonial halberds and wearing the ruffed, red-and-black uniform of the Tower of London guardians. He had read that they were called Beefeaters, a term which had caused some consternation in India, where the bulk of the population considered the cow to be an avatar of God.
The guards stepped aside to reveal a portly Indian in an ill-fitting Nehru jacket, Nehru cap and round-framed spectacles. To Chopra the man looked like a plumper version of the freedom fighter Subhash Chandra Bose.
The man welcomed the newcomers with a beaming white smile and spread his arms as if he meant to sweep them all up in an enormous embrace. ‘Welcome to the Crown Jewels exhibition!’
Chopra squinted at the tour guide’s name-tag: ATUL KOCHAR.
Kochar was an enthusiastic man. He might have been an actor in his spare time, Chopra reflected, such was the animation with which he narrated the tour of the exhibits.
Chopra listened with only half an ear. Like most of the others in the red-carpeted room his attention was instantly drawn to the Crown Jewels securely ensconced behind various glass display cases stationed around the gallery.
He plucked his reading spectacles from his pocket and pushed them self-consciously onto his nose. From his other pocket he removed his copy of the Ultimate Guidebook to the Crown Jewels, which Poppy had insisted they purchase from the Visitors’ Centre for an extortionate sum. As Kochar continued to speak, Chopra peered at the nearest display cases then leafed through the guidebook for the corresponding entries. His keen gaze picked out particularly fine pieces. Here, for instance, was the Imperial State Crown, the crown the current Queen had worn on her coronation, studded (according to the Guidebook) with 2868 diamonds, 270 pearls, 17 sapphires, 11 emeralds and 5 rubies. And over here lay the Sceptre of the Cross in which was embedded the Cullinan diamond, the world’s largest white diamond, known as the ‘Great Star of Africa’. He found himself entranced by the magnificent jewelled sword made for the coronation of King George IV, fashioned from the finest Damascus steel and inlaid (the Guide said) with a ‘king’s ransom in jewels’.
‘But how much is it all worth?’
Chopra looked up to see the plump man who had photographed himself with his arm around the waxwork Queen accosting the tour guide with a belligerent expression.
Kochar gave a somewhat strained smile. ‘No value can be placed on the Crown Jewels, sir. They are the very definition of priceless.’
‘Nonsense,’ barked the man bombastically. ‘My family are Marwari. We are in the jewel business. There is always a price. Come now, don’t be coy. Let us have it, sir.’
A chorus of agreement washed over Kochar. As he looked on Chopra felt a twinge of sadness strike his heart. Was this all these people saw? A dragon’s hoard of treasure to be weighed in dollars and rupees? What about the weight of history that lay behind each one of these magnificent creations? Or the skill that had been employed to manufacture them?
‘Stop your yapping, man. Did you come here to appreciate the jewels or buy them?’
Chopra turned to see the tall Sikh man he had queued behind at the metal detector glaring at the Marwari. The Sikh was a big, muscular gentleman with a fine beard, fierce, bushy eyebrows and a stupendous yellow turban. The retort that had sprung to the Marwari’s lips died a quiet death. His face coloured but he said nothing.
The Sikh pointed at a magnificent, eight-foot-high sandstone carving of the goddess Kali, which had been left inside the gallery due to the fact that its rear was affixed to the gallery wall. ‘You are probably the sort of fool who does not appreciate even our own history.’
Chopra felt an instant liking for the irate Sikh.
‘Yes,’ agreed a pretty young woman in a bright blue sari and red spectacles. ‘We should all learn to appreciate our own heritage. Only then can we truly appreciate someone else’s.’
The crowd swiftly saw which way the wind was blowing and galloped towards the moral high ground. There was a sudden chorus of agreement with the big Sikh. ‘Indian culture is the best, no doubt about it!’; ‘You can keep your Crown Jewels, sir. The Mughals threw away more magnificent treasures when giving alms to the poor!’ A circle widened around the Marwari who blushed furiously.
Kochar spared the hapless man further embarrassment by smoothly drawing everyone’s attention to the centrepiece of the exhibit–the Crown of Queen Elizabeth, The Queen Mother, in which was set the Kohinoor diamond.
Chopra knew that the presence of the Kohinoor on Indian soil had caused quite a stir. Ever since the legendary diamond had been ‘presented’ to Queen Victoria more than one hundred and fifty years earlier it had been the subject of controversy. Many in India felt that the Kohinoor had been stolen by the British and it was high time those great colonial thieves were forced to rectify the matter. The news channels had been awash with talk of demonstrations and civic protest, particularly from the India First lobby. In an attempt to ward off potential embarrassment for the government, Mumbai’s Commissioner of Police had ordered a clampdown on protests during the royal visit, an act which itself had courted controversy as it was deemed inherently unconstitutional.
Chopra listened now as Kochar narrated what he called ‘the mysterious and bloody history of the Kohinoor’…
The first historically verifiable record of the Kohinoor came from the memoirs of Mohammed Babur, descendant of Tamerlane and Genghis Khan, and founder of the Mughal Empire. Babur claimed the diamond had been gifted to him by the Pashtun sultan Ibrahim L
odi, though the truth was far bloodier. Lodi had perished to Babur’s invading army and the Kohinoor had been part of the plunder claimed by the new ruler of the subcontinent.
It was at this time that the curse became widely known.
Discovered in an ancient and enigmatic Sanskrit document the curse stated: ‘He who owns this diamond will own the world, but will also know all its misfortunes. Only God, or a woman, may wear it with impunity.’
Over the coming centuries the curse had proved alarmingly accurate in its dire prediction…
The run of ill fortune commenced with Babur’s son, Humayun, whose empire was overrun by the great general Sher Khan. A broken man, Humayun would later die in a freak fall from the stone steps of his court library. Sher Khan’s victory was short-lived, however–the general soon perished when a cannon packed with gunpowder exploded on him during the siege of Kalinjar Fort in Uttar Pradesh.
Next came Humayan’s grandson, Shah Jahan, the visionary behind the Taj Mahal, who installed the Kohinoor in his magnificent Peacock Throne, and paid the price for tempting fate when he was subsequently imprisoned by his son Aurangzeb. Legend had it that in order to torment his father Aurangzeb had the Kohinoor set outside the window of Shah Jahan’s cell so that he could see the Taj only by looking at its reflection in the great stone.
In 1739, Nadir Shah, the Shah of Iran, sacked Agra and Delhi and carried off the Peacock Throne to Persia not realising the ill fortune he was bringing upon himself. Shah was assassinated shortly thereafter and the Kohinoor subsequently passed through a number of hands before ending up in the treasury of Maharaja Ranjit Singh, ruling prince of the Punjab.
In 1839, following the death of Ranjit Singh, the British claimed the Punjab for the Empire, and the Kohinoor was surrendered–through the machinations of the British East India Company–to Queen Victoria. Transported to England in 1850, it was duly presented to Her Majesty as a tribute from her ‘loyal’ subjects on the subcontinent. A line of British female Queens had safeguarded the great jewel ever since. In this way the prophecy was said to have been fulfilled.
Kochar beamed at his rapt audience and then abruptly announced that they had a further fifteen minutes to view the Crown Jewels before they would be requested to make way for the next party.
The crowd dispersed around the room.
Chopra bent down to take a closer look at the Kohinoor.
‘Careful, sir. Don’t get too close or the sensors will go off. They are very sensitive.’
He looked up to see Kochar smiling wearily at him. He realised that another man, late-middle-aged, with greying hair and a noticeable paunch, was staring down at the crown from the opposite side of the display case. The man’s brow was furrowed in consternation and Chopra could make out that he was sweating heavily even though the room was air-conditioned. The man seemed to notice his scrutiny and looked up with a guilty start.
Chopra’s own brow furrowed.
It seemed to him that he had seen this gentleman before, but before he could place him the man turned and shuffled quickly away towards one of the exhibits lining the walls of the gallery.
Chopra looked back at the crown, resplendent on its velvet cushion. His eyes were automatically drawn, once again, to the Kohinoor. The display lighting had been set up so that it accentuated the legendary diamond’s beauty. Truly, he thought, it deserves its name: Koh-i-Noor–‘mountain of light’.
And suddenly there was a feeling inside him, like a whispering in his blood. Here was a living tie to the ancient India that he so cherished. He wondered what it would feel like to hold that enormous jewel in his fist, just as the greatest monarchs of the subcontinent had once done. Would he sense the ghost of Babur hovering on his shoulder? Would he know Shah Jahan’s misery as he looked longingly at that which had been taken from him by his own flesh and blood?… The Kohinoor, which, for centuries, had set man against man, king against king, legion against legion.
A loud bang jerked him from his reverie. Instinctively, he turned and looked for the source of the noise… He heard another bang, then another… Alarm tore through him as he saw a dense cloud of smoke swiftly expanding around the room, engulfing everything in a choking miasma of white… The world began to spin around him, the room sliding away into a gentle, soughing darkness… Another noise now, just on the edge of hearing, a thin high-pitched whine that he couldn’t place.
As he slumped to the floor and into unconsciousness, the last image that came to Inspector Chopra (Retd) was of the Kohinoor diamond, spinning in the heart of a white cloud, rays of light shooting from it in all directions, incinerating everything in their path.
By Vaseem Khan
BABY GANESH AGENCY INVESTIGATIONS
The Unexpected Inheritance of Inspector Chopra
The Perplexing Theft of the Jewel in the Crown
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Contents
COVER
TITLE PAGE
WELCOME
DEDICATION
INSPECTOR CHOPRA RETIRES
THE ELEPHANT ARRIVES
BACK AT THE STATION
HOMI AT THE HOSPITAL
HOW INSPECTOR CHOPRA MET POPPY
A VISIT TO THE ZOO
THE RESULTS OF THE AUTOPSY
POPPY HAS AN IDEA
VISIT TO THE VICTIM’S HOME
THE RAM LEELA INTERNATIONAL EXPORT COMPANY
INSPECTOR CHOPRA VISITS A VET
THE GREATEST SLUM ON EARTH
THE ATLAS MEGA MALL
THE MAN WHO WAS SUPPOSED TO BE DEAD
THE RAIN FINALLY ARRIVES
NO PLACE FOR AN ELEPHANT
BASANTI RIDES AGAIN
CHOPRA GOES ON A STAKEOUT
QUEEN OF THE NIGHT
ON THE BOAT
NO ORDINARY ELEPHANT
A MEETING WITH AN MLA
A RAID ON THE WATERFRONT
CHOPRA CONFRONTS KALA NAYAK
THE BABY GANESH DETECTIVE AGENCY
EPILOGUE
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
MEET THE AUTHOR
A PREVIEW OF THE PERPLEXING THEFT OF THE JEWEL IN THE CROWN
BY VASEEM KHAN
NEWSLETTERS
COPYRIGHT
Copyright
The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
Copyright © 2015 by Vaseem Khan
Excerpt from The Perplexing Theft of the Jewel in the Crown copyright © 2015 by Vaseem Khan
Cover © 2015 Hachette Book Group, Inc.
All rights reserved. In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without the permission of the publisher constitute unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like to use material from the book (other than for review purposes), prior written permission must be obtained by contacting the publisher at [email protected]. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.
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First ebook edition: September 2015
Originally published in Great Britain by Mulholland Books
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ISBN 978-0-316-38679-1
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