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

by Spencer, Sally

  The door swung open. A liveried hotel porter stood there, his right hand tightly gripping the thin arm of a street urchin who could not have been more than eleven or twelve years old. Behind the man and the boy were the bodyguards, ready to take any action which should be called for.

  ‘What is the meaning of this?’ Aggarwal demanded.

  ‘Begging your pardon, but this boy come up to me at the door,’ the porter replied. ‘Said he had an important message for the Maharaja.’

  The urchin had been passive until that moment, but now he began to try to struggle free of the porter’s grip.

  ‘Are you ‘im?’ he demanded. ‘Are you the boss nigger?’

  ‘Why are you wasting my time by bringing this piece of vermin to me?’ Aggarwal asked with distaste.

  The porter opened his free hand. ‘The boy had this with him,’ he said.

  It was a ruby—not a particularly valuable stone by the Maharaja’s standards, but one which the secretary recognized as having formed part of the decoration on the young prince’s turban.

  ‘My men will take care of the boy—and the stone,’ the secretary said to the porter. ‘You yourself may leave.’

  ‘Now just a minute,’ the porter protested. ‘I could have kept the jewel to myself, you know. Instead, I decided to do the honest thing and bring it to you. I’m surely entitled to some reward for that, ain’t I?’

  If the man had been an Indian servant, Aggarwal would have had him whipped within an inch of his life for such insolence. But that was not possible in this country, the secretary thought regretfully. Here, it was unfortunately necessary to employ gentler means.

  ‘You will be well paid for the valuable service you have performed,’ he assured the porter, ‘but now we would like some privacy.’

  The porter hesitated for a second, and then withdrew. The secretary gestured to one of the guards that he should take control of the boy and bring him closer to the table.

  ‘Are you ‘im?’ the urchin demanded. ‘Are you the boss nigger?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then where is ‘e?’

  ‘His Majesty is sedated at the moment,’ the secretary explained.

  The boy looked at him blankly.

  ‘His Majesty is asleep,’ Aggarwal amplified.

  ‘Don’t know nothin’ about any majesties,’ the urchin said. ‘I was told to speak to the boss nigger.’

  ‘Speak to me.’

  But you’re not the boss.’

  ‘True, but I am His Majesty’s private secretary.’

  ‘I s’pose it’ll be all right to tell you then,’ the urchin said cheerfully. ‘Specially seem’ as you’re the one what’ll be doin’ all the dirty work.’

  ‘What dirty work? I demand to know what you mean.’

  ‘The bloke told me to say fings in the right order, so I wouldn’t get confused,’ the urchin said. ‘The part about the dirty work only comes later.’

  ‘Then start immediately, in order that we may reach that part as quickly as possible.’

  ‘I was down on Mile End Road when this bloke come up to me,’ the boy replied.

  ‘What did this ‘bloke’ look like?’

  ‘Big bugger. Wearin’ a top ‘at an’ a beard what looked as if it ‘ad been made of rats’ air.’

  ‘Was he dark, like I am?’

  ‘Could ‘ave been anuver nigger. Then again, ‘e might just ‘ave spent a lot of time out in the sun—which ain’t ‘ealthy.’

  ‘What did this man tell you?’

  ‘Said he ‘ad this message ‘e wanted deliverin’. Said I was to tell the sekritury—that’s you—to be standin’ at Battle Bridge Steps at exac’ly eleven o’clock tomorrer mornin’. Said if you wasn’t there at just the right time, the ‘ole thing was off.’

  ‘What whole thing?’

  ‘Didn’t say.’

  ‘What happened next?’

  ‘Then the bloke give me this jool. Said I’d need it to convince you I was on the up an’ up.’

  How deep did the conspiracy run? Aggarwal asked himself. Could even the boy be part of it—the skinny goat used to ensnare much mightier creatures? And if that were the case, might not the way he himself reacted now determine whether he was to live or die?

  ‘There is one thing about your story which does not make sense,’ he said cautiously.

  ‘An’ what thing is that?’

  ‘Why did this man trust you with the jewel? How could he be sure that you wouldn’t simply run away once he had given you the precious stone? Was it that he looked into your face and saw an honesty which was beyond question?’

  The urchin gave the secretary a look which was halfway between contempt and pity.

  ‘Course it bloody wasn’t,’ the boy said. ‘I’d sell me own grandma for a tanner—if I knew ‘oo she was—an’ anybody can see that. So ‘e didn’t trust me. ‘E didn’t trust me at all. ‘E brought me ‘ere in a cab, an’ stood across the road till he saw me show the jool to that bloke in the uniform.’

  Aggarwal cursed himself for not asking the question earlier. If he had known that one of the kidnappers was in striking distance, the guards might have been able to lay their hands on the man. Then again, he thought, reconsidering the matter, perhaps it would have been a mistake to go on the offensive in such a manner. Perhaps the wiser course would be to bide his time until he had a clearer picture of what exactly the conspiracy involved. And it seemed he was to be afforded just that opportunity.

  ‘I should be at Battle Bridge Steps at precisely eleven o’clock,’ the secretary repeated. ‘Is that correct?’

  ‘Yes. An’ there was one more thing. ‘E said that you was to make sure that you come alone. Said that ‘e’d ‘ave ‘is people watchin’ you every step of the way, an’ that if you ‘ad a policeman or any of the uvver niggers with you, ‘e’d ‘ave to do somefink unpleasant to yer.’

  A cold shudder ran through Aggarwal. ‘Is that precisely what the man said?’ he asked. ‘That he’d do ‘something unpleasant?’

  ‘No,’ the boy admitted, ‘but it turns me stomach just to fink about what he did say.’

  Nineteen

  It was a foggy morning in London—it would not really have been London without the fog—but once outside the capital, the weather started to improve, and by the time the train pulled into Windsor Station the sun was shining benevolently and Blackstone felt it was almost possible to take an optimistic view of life.

  While Patterson hailed a cab, Blackstone looked up at the majestic Windsor Castle and wondered if it were true that the Queen was thinking of awarding him a medal. If it was, he was not sure that he wanted it. Because though he had fought in the Army, it had not been for the greater glory of the Queen so much as to escape from the grinding poverty of his childhood. And though he was capable of intense loyalty, he reserved most of it for the people of the East End, where he had grown up. It was ironic then that he—who cared so little for her—had done the Queen greater service than most men in England and that, by working on this case to the best of his ability, he was continuing to further her interests.

  Patterson had found a closed cab, and the two detectives climbed inside.

  ‘Spill the beans on Colonel Howarth, then?’ Blackstone asked.

  ‘Spill the beans?’ Patterson repeated, feigning a look of slightly injured innocence. ‘We didn’t even learn that he existed till last night, yet you expect me to know about him already?’

  Blackstone grinned. ‘Correct,’ he said.

  That was the thing about Patterson, he thought. Not only did he store vast amounts of information in his dustbin of a brain, but he knew who to ask for any he hadn’t already absorbed. It was truly remarkable the number of people that the sergeant—a man still a couple of years off thirty—seemed to know. Blackstone was almost looking forward to the day when they conducted an investigation which didn’t involve someone Patterson knew—a case in which the sergeant would be unable to greet a journalist or a lawyer, a chimney sweep or an i
tinerant chair-mender, on terms of familiarity. But whilst he might anticipate it, he wasn’t holding his breath while he waited for it to happen.

  ‘Well?’ the Inspector asked.

  Patterson returned his grin. ‘I was talking to a pal of mine at the War Office last night,’ he admitted.

  ‘And?’

  ‘Colonel Howarth’s in his late seventies. He comes from a very good background, but not a particularly affluent one. He spent most of his Army career in India, where he served with some distinction and was decorated twice. He never married. When he retired, he bought a place in Warwickshire. He moved to Amritsar Lodge less than a year ago.’

  ‘And that’s all you’ve got, is it?’ Blackstone teased.

  ‘I did my best in the short time available,’ Patterson protested.

  They passed by a gatehouse, and got their first view of Amritsar Lodge. Sunlight shone on the rows of elegant Georgian windows. Peacocks strutted and preened themselves on the terrace. There was a stable block to the left of the house, and an artificial lake to the right. The lodge was not a palace, by any stretch of the imagination, but it was still a substantial enough dwelling for any country gentleman to be proud to call his home.

  ‘Thought you told me that Colonel Howarth didn’t have any money,’ Blackstone said.

  ‘I told you he wasn’t born with money,’ Patterson corrected him. But he certainly seems to have it now, doesn’t he?’

  ‘Yes, he does,’ Blackstone agreed pensively.

  They had announced their intention to visit in advance, and the footman who greeted them at the door took them straight through to the Colonel’s sitting room.

  The room told its own story. A crossed pair of hunting rifles were mounted over the fireplace, just above a regimental sword. An antelope’s head on one wall stared across the room at an elephant’s head mounted on another. Surrounding these trophies were dozens of fading, framed photographs, each depicting a group of men posing stiffly in military uniforms. There were several occasional tables with Benares brass tops and curly teak legs, and much of the floor was covered with silk carpets. It all reminded Blackstone of the officers’ mess he had seen—though only through the window—while he had been serving in India.

  The Colonel was sitting in an armchair by the fire. He made no move to get up when the detectives entered the room, nor seemed to feel the need to apologize for the fact. He was a completely bald man, but sported a white walrus moustache under his beak of a nose. He was wearing the red, blue and gold uniform of the 1lth Hussars, which, over the years, must have undergone extensive alteration in order to still fit his corpulent frame.

  ‘Policeman, are you?’ he asked Blackstone.

  ‘That’s right, sir,’ Blackstone confirmed.

  ‘Not always been, though, have you?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Thought not. You stand like a soldier. Ever serve in India?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Don’t suppose you were an officer?’

  ‘I was offered a field commission,’ Blackstone said. ‘So why didn’t you take it?’

  ‘Couldn’t afford to. I didn’t have the private income necessary to meet the expenses it would have entailed.’

  ‘Quite right to turn it down in that case,’ the Colonel said. ‘Admire you for it—in a way. Shouldn’t wear the uniform if you can’t afford to live the life. Still, you do realize that the fact you weren’t an officer means I can’t ask you to sit down?’

  ‘Of course,’ Blackstone said.

  ‘That’s all right then.’ The Colonel glanced across at the window. ‘Seen the view through there?’

  Blackstone turned his head. ‘Windsor Castle.’

  ‘Windsor Castle! Used to live in Warwickshire when I first left the Army. Like it better here. Comfortin’ to be so close to the monarch I served all my life. Convenient for London, too. Not that that makes much difference. Never go there now. Don’t get out much at all these days.’

  ‘Why is that?’ Blackstone asked politely. ‘Are you unwell?’

  ‘Gout’s got something to do with it,’ the Colonel admitted. ‘Cut a fine figure on a horse in my time. Going from that to being pushed around in an invalid chair like some frail old lady is a long way to fall. But that’s only part of the reason I stay away from London.’

  ‘And what’s the other part?’

  ‘Don’t feel comfortable there these days. Probably never really did once I’d seen India. Can’t understand these stay-at-home wallahs, and they can’t understand me. Calcutta’s my city.’

  ‘Do you know the Maharaja of Chandrapore?’ Blackstone asked.

  ‘Knew his uncle. The current maharaja was no more than a boy at the time.’ The Colonel paused. ‘I’ve been ramblin’ on, haven’t I? Comes of gettin’ so few visitors. Suppose I should really ask you what this is all about.’

  ‘I thought you’d know already, sir.’

  ‘Well, you’re wrong. Haven’t got a clue why you’re here.’

  ‘I take it from that that you don’t read the newspapers, sir.’

  ‘Damn right, I don’t read them. See no reason why I should subsidize the anarchists and radicals who seem to be in charge of the press these days. Wouldn’t have happened in India, you know. Over there, we knew how to use the so-called journalists as an instrument of government policy.’ The Colonel paused again. ‘Assumin’ I did read the papers, would there have been anythin’ of interest to me in this mornin’s?’

  Blackstone smiled, and told the Colonel about the kid-napping.

  ‘Damn clever,’ Howarth said. ‘A bit flash, but still damn clever. I had a tiger myself, you know.’

  ‘Had?’ Blackstone repeated.

  ‘Brute died on me last week. Hadn’t had him more than a few days.’ A new thought seemed to strike the Colonel. ‘Didn’t think it was my tiger on Regent Street, did you?’

  ‘We thought it might be a possibility. And we had to check.’

  ‘Of course you did,’ the Colonel agreed. ‘Leave no stone unturned—that’s always been my motto.’

  ‘What did your tiger die of?’

  ‘God alone knows. Some kind of tropical disease, I expect. Lot of them in the air in India. They say West Africa’s the white man’s graveyard, but let me tell you, India could run it a damn close second.’

  ‘Do you mind if I ask you a question, sir?’ Patterson said to the Colonel.

  ‘Ask away, young feller. Never learn if you don’t ask.’

  ‘Why did you want a tiger?’

  ‘Because I couldn’t afford an elephant.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘Wanted something around me in my old age to remind me of India. Thought of an elephant at first, but I’m no maharaja, and it would have cost too much to ship it across. Settled on a tiger.’

  ‘And where did you keep it?’ Patterson asked.

  ‘There’s a walled-off area near the edge of the property which used to be an orchard. Kept the brute there. Why do you ask?’

  ‘I wondered if we could see it.’

  ‘Can’t think why you should want to.’

  ‘It’s just curiosity on my part,’ Patterson said, affecting a blush which made him look even more like a plump boy than he normally did. ‘I’ve never got close to a tiger—’

  ‘Told you, the damn thing’s dead.’

  ‘—but if I could just walk over the same ground as he once strode o’er, I’m sure I’d be able to feel something of his majestic presence.’

  The Colonel gave the sergeant a long, penetrating stare. ‘Sounds like a damn silly idea to me,’ he pronounced finally. ‘Fanciful! Not one of those nancy boys, are you?’

  ‘No, sir,’ Patterson said, the blush on his cheeks now more real than assumed.

  Blackstone put his hand on Patterson’s shoulder in an avuncular fashion.

  ‘My sergeant’s as normal as you or I, Colonel,’ he assured Howarth. ‘He’s just not had our experience of the world.’

  �
�That’s obvious enough,’ Howarth replied, sounding slightly uneasy.

  ‘We’ve been to India. We’ve seen all the marvels the sub-continent has to offer. But my sergeant’s hardly ever been out of London. So it wouldn’t do him any harm to see the tiger’s enclosure, would it? His ideas might seem a bit fanciful to you and me, but it’s not really much different to letting your grandson have a sniff at the cork on the whisky bottle, now is it?’

  ‘I suppose not,’ Howarth said doubtfully.

  ‘So you wouldn’t mind if he had a quick look, would you? I promise I won’t let him do any damage.’

  The Colonel hesitated. ‘I’m not sure—’

  ‘After all,’ Blackstone said cheerfully, ‘it’s not as if you’ve got anything to hide, is it?’

  ‘No,’ the Colonel admitted, reluctantly. ‘It’s not as if I’ve got anything to hide.’

  ‘So how would we go about seeing this famous tiger’s den?’

  ‘On your way out ask the footman to take you to Tebbitt, my head groundsman,’ the Colonel said, defeatedly. ‘Served with me in India, did Tebbitt. A sound chap. He’ll take you to where I used to keep the tiger.’

  ‘Much obliged,’ Blackstone said.

  The Colonel relapsed into deep thought the moment his visitors had left.

  ‘You shouldn’t necessarily expect a visit from the authorities,’ he’d been told, ‘but you shouldn’t be too surprised, either, if you do get one.’

  ‘How should I behave if they turn up on my doorstep?’ the Colonel had asked. ‘I’m no actor, you know.’

  The other man had laughed. ‘No actor? After you’ve been playing the bluff, honest soldier—the warrior who knows no fear—for almost your entire life?’

  The young could be so cruel, the Colonel thought, but what had been said was not so far from the truth. Ever since he had first donned a uniform, he had had the guilty feeling that he was not so much being a soldier as playing at being one. Perhaps all British officers felt as he did, though he knew that they—like he himself—would die rather than admit it.

  Now that the policemen had gone, he found himself wondering if, for once, he had failed to play the part up to the hilt. They should not have asked to see where the tiger had been kept, and when they did, he should have refused them. Yet how could he have done that without raising their suspicion?