Blackstone and the Great Game (The Blackstone Detective Series Book 2)

by Spencer, Sally

  For a moment, the sergeant’s mouth flapped open and he was unable to speak. Then the words came to him.

  ‘Bugger me sideways!’ he gasped.

  ***

  The procession was certainly an impressive sight. Leading it were mounted cavalry. And not just any cavalry, but the Royal Horse Guards—one of the most prestigious regiments in the whole British army. Their breastplates shone in the sunlight, the red plumes from their helmets swayed gently as they rode in perfect, disciplined formation. But though the cavalry would have attracted a crowd in their own right on most occasions, they were nothing but a poor sideshow now. Because behind them—unbelievably—was a gigantic Indian elephant.

  In front of the huge grey beast danced musicians, playing on their pipes and drums. On either side of it walked beautiful young brown-skinned maidens, scattering rose petals from silver baskets into the bedazzled crowd which lined the route. And flanking the women were the bodyguards—tall, proud men with turbans and beards, each dressed in an immaculate scarlet uniform, each with a ceremonial musket held firmly in his steady hands.

  Yet however colourful the view at street level, it was the massive presence of the elephant which dominated the whole scene. It moved forward slowly but impressively—as large as a double-decker bus, as solid as a granite mountain. It was draped in a huge embroidered silk cloth which was worth more than an entire street in the East End.

  On the beast’s neck sat its mahout, a small brown man wearing only a loincloth. And resting on the elephant’s powerful back was a howdah—or canopied seat—which was held in place by a thick strap running under the beast’s belly.

  The spectators were too entranced by the elephant itself to notice the howdah at first, but once they had seen it, it became the focus of their attention. And with good reason! It was a wonder to behold—a delicate work of art elaborately carved from ivory and teak and encrusted with a hundred large jewels.

  It would have seemed almost vandalism to sit on this treasure, were it not for the fact that the two persons doing so—a man and a boy—looked created for just that purpose. Their jackets and trousers glowed as if they had been spun from the purest gold, the slippers on their feet of a delicacy which could hardly be imagined. They belonged in the howdah because they, too, were works of art.

  Perhaps a minute had passed since they had first caught sight of the procession, and neither the Inspector nor the sergeant had moved a single step in that time. In Patterson’s case, it had been an all-embracing awe which had brought him to a halt, and he had assumed—without even really thinking about it—that the same was true of Blackstone. But the Inspector was not a man to keep silent on an occasion like this—or indeed, on any occasion—and Patterson soon found himself wondering whether, perhaps, something was not quite as it should have been.

  The sergeant forced himself to look from the spectacle to his boss. Blackstone was standing perfectly still, his left hand stroking his chin thoughtfully, his eyes almost closed.

  ‘Is there a problem, sir?’ Patterson asked.

  Blackstone said nothing.

  ‘I asked if there was a problem, sir,’ Patterson repeated, speaking louder this time.

  Blackstone’s hand fell away from his chin, flopped down to his side and hung there loosely. His eyes, now fully opened, were filled with horror, and as he fixed his gaze on the elephant and the howdah, his whole body tensed.

  ‘Sir?’ Patterson said helplessly. ‘Sir?’

  It was plain that Blackstone was still not aware of his presence. The Inspector, in fact, was travelling in a world of ‘maybes’ which he was almost convinced would soon become a world of terrible reality.

  ‘No!’ he said, in a voice which was almost a croak. ‘No, it couldn’t be that. It couldn’t possibly be that!’

  Nine

  The Maharaja looked down at the mesmerized mob below the swaying elephant, then turned towards the six-year-old boy sitting beside him. Everything he did, he did with thoughts of this child in mind. Balachandra—the young moon. A gift from the heavens. The most precious thing in the whole world.

  ‘What do you make of all this, my son?’ he asked.

  The boy thought for a moment. ‘The peasants seem very pale and also very stupid,’ he said.

  ‘Why do you say they are stupid?’

  ‘Because of the way they gaze at Dhiren. Anyone would think they had never seen an elephant before.’

  ‘Perhaps they haven’t,’ the Maharaja said. ‘Outside the zoos, there are no elephants in England.’

  ‘What is a zoo?’ the boy asked. ‘And if they have no elephants, how do they lift tree trunks?’

  The Maharaja laughed indulgently. ‘You have a great deal yet to learn of India, but so much more of the world outside it. But there is no urgency. When the time finally comes for you to take my place, you will be ready.’

  ***

  The creature in the back of the van was struggling hard to work out what was wrong. It was no easy task, for while his brain had proved more than adequate for dealing with his natural surroundings, he had been denied those surroundings for some considerable time now.

  He was an animal driven by instinct, who killed his victims without compunction. He had expected the same fate to befall him once he had been captured, but instead his enemies had chosen to keep him alive. He did not understand this at all. For the defeated, death was as natural as the rain and the wind. What had happened to him since he had been taken most definitely was not.

  There was space in the van—more space than he had been granted on the bullock cart, or in the train, or on the ship. Yet he felt no desire to explore his space, nor even mark it out as his own. He felt too drowsy for that. He did not know why this should be. A creature of the jungle, he understood traps and spears and even guns, but until this point in his life, drugs had never been a problem.

  ***

  Though he considered the assignment he and his men had been given to be unnecessary, Sergeant Robert Simcox had carried out the early parts of it with the same thoroughness and diligence which had earned him his sergeant’s stripes five years earlier.

  ‘You are not to hold back the crowd,’ he had instructed the constables under his command, ‘but if any person steps into the path of the procession, you are to apprehend them.’

  As if there really was any chance of them needing to actually do that! As if any of the people lining the street would block the progress of the Royal Horse Guards! And if they were unwilling to get in the way of horses, what were the chances they would put themselves in the path of an elephant? Still, he had been given his orders and he would both relay them to his men and see that those men carried them out to the letter.

  The procession had already reached the top of the street. Simcox was on the point of giving his deployment a final inspection when, over the heads of the small crowd gathered on the edge of the pavement, he noticed that two police vans—or Black Marias, as they had become popularly known—were completely blocking the entrance to Charles II Street.

  His first reaction was one of annoyance. He was supposed to be in charge of the operation, but how could he hope to be effective when his superiors had neglected to inform him of exactly what was going on?

  Then annoyance gave way to curiosity. What purpose did the van drivers think they were serving? He was not expecting to make any arrests, and even if he did collar a couple of troublemakers, he wouldn’t need two Black Marias to convey them to the police station. Then again, what was the idea of parking the vans in such a position in the first place? Two together served no purpose at all, unless to bar the road. And why should anyone wish to do that?

  The procession was getting closer, but Sergeant Simcox decided he still had time to sort out the situation with the Black Marias before it actually arrived. With this purpose in mind, he marched briskly towards the two vehicles.

  ‘Clear a way,’ he said to the spectators on the pavement.

  The men and women grumbled amongst themsel
ves, but the sergeant was the law, and so they pushed and edged against each other until they had created a small thoroughfare along which he could pass.

  Simcox examined the Black Marias. They did not completely block access to Charles II Street, as he had thought earlier. In fact, there was a small gap between one of the vehicles and the wall, just wide enough for a man—even a slightly heavy police sergeant—to squeeze through.

  The procession had already passed by the spot at which Calvert and Ruddick were posted, but the two constables still had a job to do.

  ‘It’s not just a matter of clearin’ all the traffic in front, you’ve got to stop it comin’ up from behind,’ Sergeant Simcox had told them.

  ‘An’ why’s that, Sarge?’ Calvert had asked.

  ‘Because processions go slow, and other things go as fast as they can,’ the sergeant had explained patiently. ‘Do you really think the Horse Guards want to be overtaken by a wagon carryin’ a heap of shit? An’ how d’you think the poor bloody elephant will feel if it has one of them new-fangled automobiles right up its arse?’

  Calvert had grinned. ‘Point taken, Sarge.’

  ‘Give it half an hour,’ Simcox had instructed. ‘Then you can start lettin’ things through again.’

  It was only a couple of minutes after the sergeant had left to inspect the rest of his men that the Indians arrived on the scene. There were five of them. Four were wearing a uniform similar to the men who had walked beside the elephant. The fifth—who was clearly the leader—was dressed in a flowing white jacket of the finest linen, and held in his hands the biggest rifle the two constables had ever seen.

  As the five men passed through the barrier, Ruddick stepped in front of them to block their passage.

  ‘Now then, what’s this all about?’ he asked.

  ‘We are part of His Majesty’s entourage,’ the man in the impressive white jacket said. ‘It is our duty and honour to protect his sacred person.’

  ‘Then you’re a bit late,’ Ruddick told him. ‘He’s already gone.’

  The Indian gave the constable a superior smile. ‘There are those who protect His Majesty from the front and those who protect him from the rear,’ he explained. ‘Our task is to prevent surprise attacks from behind.’

  ‘Is that why you’re carryin’ that bloody big gun?’ Calvert asked.

  ‘Exactly,’ the Indian agreed.

  ‘Well, given who you are, I suppose there’s no harm in lettin’ you go on your way,’ Ruddick said.

  ‘We have no wish to do that,’ the Indian replied. ‘We are perfectly content to wait here.’

  ‘I don’t see the point of that,’ Ruddick admitted.

  The Indian smiled again. ‘You will,’ he promised. ‘Given time, everything will be made clear.’

  ***

  Sucking in his stomach, Sergeant Simcox edged past the van which was blocking the entrance to Charles II Street. Once he was the other side of it, he became even more mystified. There should have been a horse between the shafts of each van, but there was not. Furthermore, there was no sign of any police constables in attendance. In fact, the only soul in sight was a young man in a shabby suit who had his cap pulled down well over his eyes and a muffler covering the lower part of his face.

  ‘What’s happenin’ here?’ the sergeant demanded.

  The man with the muffler merely shrugged.

  ‘Let’s have a bit of respect for the law, shall we?’ Simcox said. ‘When a policeman asks you a question, he expects an answer. Usin’ words!’

  The sound of horses’ hooves, interwoven with the beat of drums and shrill chant of the pipes, was growing ever closer. Though Simcox was still not alarmed, he was developing a sense of some urgency. His business was with the procession, he reminded himself. By the time it passed by this spot, he should be back at his post.

  The other man had still not said a word, but Simcox got the distinct impression that behind his muffler, he was grinning.

  ‘I’ll give you one last chance to be civil, an’ then I’m takin’ you in,’ the sergeant said. ‘Don’t bother to ask what the charge is. I haven’t thought of one yet—but by the time I get you back to the station, I’ll have come up with plenty to book you for.’

  The man in the muffler reached into his jacket. When he brought it out again, he was holding something in his hand. It took Sergeant Simcox no more than a split second to identify the thing he was holding as a knife—but that was a split second too long.

  The other man was an expert with his weapon, and no sooner was it free of his jacket than it was flying through the air. Simcox opened his mouth to tell the man he could not do that—but he plainly could, and even before the sergeant had got the first word out, he felt the blade embed itself in his chest.

  He tried to raise his hands to pull the knife out, but somehow he did not have the strength. Though he didn’t want to do it, he felt himself sinking to his knees. He attempted to speak—not to issue a command or an instruction, but only to ask why this should have happened. He got no further than a bubble of blood, and then he keeled over completely.

  The man in the muffler walked over to where his victim had fallen, bent down and pulled out the knife. The blade was bloody, and he wiped it clean on the sergeant’s uniform jacket before returning it to its sheath.

  The procession was almost on him now. The man in the muffler had one more task to perform, and then he was done.

  Ten

  It seemed to the creature in the back of the Black Maria that two things were happening simultaneously. The first was that the back doors of the van were swinging open to reveal a harsh daylight which hurt his eyes. The second was that something sharp and moderately painful was poking him in the haunches.

  His previous experience of the natural order of things told him that he should be curious about the former of these events and angry at the presumptuousness of the latter. But he was too tired for such displays of passion and interest, and contented himself with a lazy roar.

  That should have done the trick. Back on his home ground, even a subdued roar would have been enough to have all other living things scattering in a panic. But it did not seem to work here, in his prison which no longer imprisoned him, because no sooner had the roar died away than he was being poked again.

  His dull brain worked at the problem. Whatever was causing him pain could not apparently be persuaded to go away. Nor, since he seemed unable to identify his enemy, could he attack it. Clearly, then, there was no alternative but to remove himself from the source of his irritation.

  He climbed to his leaden legs, and padded over to the now-open doors. His vision was blurred, and his hearing dulled, but even so he could detect sudden movement to both his left and right and register the screams which were going on all around him.

  He did not notice that the floor of the van was higher than the ground outside. That would not have mattered under normal circumstances, because once he felt himself falling, he would have compensated for it. But these were not normal circumstances. The drugs had dulled his reactions, and instead of landing lightly on his feet, he crashed to the ground in an ungainly heap.

  The screaming continued all around him, and now he could smell animals other than the human ones which had inhabited his world ever since his capture. He climbed awkwardly to his feet again. His vision was still not what it might have been, but even so he had no difficulty in identifying the four-legged creatures only a few feet away from him as juicy, hysterical horses. But better was yet to come. Immediately behind the horses stood a huge grey mountain which had begun to trumpet in alarm. Even in his doped condition, he knew he was not back in the jungle which was his home, but at least elements of his home seemed to have travelled to this strange place with him. On legs which were far from steady, he began an irregular progress towards the elephant.

  ***

  When the people closest to the Black Marias heard the doors start to open, they turned their heads to see what was going on. And that was when
they caught their first sight of the Bengal tiger.

  Panic followed immediately. Those who could ran to the left or the right. Those who found these escape routes blocked stepped out into the road in front of the horses, their instincts telling them that it was better to be trampled to death than eaten alive.

  The horses had been trained to endure the noise and chaos of battle conditions, and the sudden appearance of a small mob of frightened people was no more than a minor irritation to them. The tiger was another matter. Though they had never encountered any such beast before, they recognized the scent which filled their nostrils was that of a cold-blooded killer. A wave of fear washed over them, sweeping away all they had ever learned of discipline and order. They whinnied and reared. They fought the bits pulling cruelly against the delicate tissues of their mouths and spurs digging forcefully into their flanks. Mere physical pain had ceased to bother them. It was pure terror which was driving them now.

  The ponderous elephant took longer than the highly strung horses to understand what was going on, but when it did, the effect on it was no less dramatic. Its trunk, which had been rolled a moment earlier, was suddenly extended and it was trumpeting a cry which might have been defiance or panic—and was probably a little of both.

  The elephant’s mahout, sensing the danger, attempted to remind the huge beast of its training by prodding it with his bullhook. It was a waste of effort. The elephant barely even noticed the painful pricking through its thick skin, for, like the horses, its whole consciousness was focused on the tiger.

  The elephant suddenly reared. The mahout, caught off guard, tried to grab hold of one of the beast’s large ears, but before he could establish a grip he found himself sliding down the neck and then falling to the ground. On the back of the elephant, the howdah swayed dangerously, but as long as the strap which ran under the beast’s belly held, it was likely to remain in place.

  A few of the Horse Guards had managed to regain control of their mounts, but many were doing no more than clinging on, while others had not even managed that basic feat and were lying dazed and shaken on the ground. The tiger continued his erratic progress into the street, though he was so bemused that he was either unaware of, or indifferent to, the consternation he was causing. The musicians and flower girls had already fled with the spectators, but the Maharaja’s bodyguards had dropped down on to one knee and were already sighting their ceremonial—though still lethal—muskets on the Bengal killer.