‘Not too steady on my pegs,’ he slurred. ‘Not too steady at all.’
But did he?’ Blackstone said, almost under his breath.
‘Beg pardon, sir?’
‘Did Walsh really lose his cheroots? Or was he just looking for an excuse not to have to smoke one?’
Thirty-Eight
Anyone with little on them worth stealing might walk down this particular street with only minor foreboding in the daytime. Once night fell, however, it was a different matter entirely. The darkness brought with it a sense of desperation. Prostitutes, trying to scrape together enough to pay for their night’s lodging, would lower both their already pitiful fees and their already pitiful standards. Robbers would kill a man for a penny, for his life was not worth even that much to them. Drunken dockers might attack a passer-by for no other reason than the frustration which came from living a life on the edge—a life dependent on tides and weather, and on rich merchants who did not care what misery they might bring to a struggling dockland family.
Such dangers did not worry the man who was calling himself—at least for the moment—Mr White. He had fought bandits on India’s Northwest Frontier. He had battled Afghan warriors in an unofficial war which was forever being waged in the Hindu Kush. And though what gripped him at that moment was the fear for the loss of a human life, that human life was not his own.
As he passed the front door of each crumbling terraced house, he counted off its number in his head. ‘Seventy-one, seventy-three, seventy-five…’ When he reached number 83, he stopped, and rapped confidently on the door.
He had not even seen the guard watching him from the shadows, but now he heard the sound of the man’s footsteps and felt the man’s strong hand take an iron grip of his shoulder.
‘An’ where do you think you’re goin’?’ the man demanded.
‘I’m here to see Mr Jones,’ the newcomer said.
The guard pulled him closer towards the street light. ‘Oh, it’s you, Mr White,’ he said. ‘We wasn’t expectin’ you.’
‘No, I…It’s Brown, isn’t it?’
‘That’s right,’ Brown said, continuing to maintain his firm grip. ‘An’ we still wasn’t expectin’ you.’
‘Something’s come up,’ the man calling himself White said. ‘I need to speak to Mr Jones immediately.’
Brown shook his head doubtfully. ‘Mr Jones don’t like changes in plans, especially at this stage of the operation. It’s not military.’
‘It’s not exactly military for a sergeant to manhandle an officer, either,’ White said coldly.
Brown released his grip as quickly as if he had suddenly realized his hand was on fire.
‘Sorry, sir,’ he said. ‘I didn’t mean to—’
‘Of course you didn’t,’ White said. ‘And now I’d like to see Mr Jones.’
Brown hesitated for the briefest of seconds, then knocked on the door. When it opened a fraction he said, ‘I’ve got Mr White here, Green. Take him to see Mr Jones right away.’
In every other house in this street, dozens of people would be sleeping, fighting or whoring, but as White followed Green down the corridor, the only sound he could hear in this house was the creak of floorboards beneath his feet.
The room Green took him to was at the end of the corridor. It was unfurnished except for a plain deal table and two chairs. On one of the chairs sat General Harcourt—or Mr Jones as he was to be known for the duration of the operation. He seemed surprised to see his visitor, but after telling Green that he could go, he gestured White to sit down.
‘Weren’t you taking rather a chance, coming here?’ he asked sternly.
‘I wasn’t followed,’ White told him.
‘Can you be sure of that?’
‘I used to be able to spot a hired assassin in all the crush of a Bombay market. I would have had no difficulty picking out a London copper on my tail.’
Jones nodded. ‘You’re probably right,’ he agreed. ‘And I’m sure you have good reasons for running the risk you have. Would you care to tell me what they are?’
White shrugged. ‘There was nothing specific. I just wanted to be sure that everything was going according to plan.’
Out of respect for the man he was dealing with, Jones made some attempt to disguise the anger which was welling up inside him.
‘Indeed?’ he said. ‘Well, now you can see that everything’s going quite smoothly, I suggest that you leave again as soon as possible.’
White looked around the room. ‘Where’s the prince?’ he asked casually. ‘I thought he’d be here.’
‘You thought I’d have the little nigger with me? Why? For his excellent company?’
White laughed unconvincingly. ‘Of course not. I was thinking more in terms of security.’
‘He’s secure enough.’
‘And still in this house?’
‘Why do you ask?’
‘Security again. As you know, it will be part of my function to see that he is returned to his father and—’
‘Not anymore.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘It means that you will not be involved in that particular phase of the operation.’
But it was understood from the start that I would be,’ White protested.
‘And now the orders have been changed.’
‘So who will deliver the boy?’
‘That is not your concern.’
‘Most of the military blunders in our history have been as a result of the right hand not knowing what the left hand was doing,’ White said. ‘I would have thought that we were professional enough to avoid any such mistake. I would have thought that, given the significant role I have played so far in the operation, I would be entitled to know any details which were of interest to me.’
Jones nodded. ‘Very well. We do not need you to participate in the return of the boy because the boy will not be returned.’
‘Are you saying—?’
‘Why risk any of our men on such a mission, when we no longer have any need to?’
‘If the operation is carried out smoothly, there will be no risk at all.’
‘You can’t be sure of that. Besides, think of the effect on the Maharaja when all he gets back for his hundred and twenty thousand is a head,’ Jones said with obvious relish. ‘It’ll be enough to make him lose his mind.’
‘It would be enough to make anyone lose his mind.’
‘And even if he doesn’t quite go crazy, it will certainly make him far too unstable for those meddlers at the India Office to ever think of putting him back on the throne again.’
‘The boy is a prince of royal blood!’ White protested.
‘He’s a nigger!’ Jones said contemptuously ‘Niggers have no value other than the use we choose to make of them, and he can be most useful to us by being dead.’
‘And not just a prince, but a child!’ White gasped. ‘A child!’
‘So was the son of that cotton magnate. You raised no objection when we sent his head back to his father in a hatbox.’
But that was necessary to show that we were serious, and—’
‘What are you saying?’ Jones asked harshly. ‘That you are willing to sacrifice a white child in the interests of necessity, but that a nigger is somehow immune from the same treatment?’
‘No, of course not,’ White said hastily. He gave Jones a weak smile. ‘Got things rather out of proportion, haven’t I?’
‘So it would seem.’
‘Can’t apologize enough. Can only put it down to the strain I’ve been under these last few days.’
‘We’ve all been under strain.’
‘That’s true enough. But I’m the only one who’s actually been on the front line.’
‘Can’t have been easy for you,’ admitted Jones, who, whilst he saw himself as a firm man, also liked to think he was a fair one. ‘When you’re forced to play as many roles as you have been recently, it must sometimes be difficult to remember who you really are.’
‘That’s exactly it,’ White said gratefully.
‘Then let’s put this whole conversation behind us. It never happened. And when the accounts of the glorious affair can be safely written up, you’ll emerge as the hero you truly have been.’
‘That’s more than generous,’ White said. ‘Would you like me to kill the boy myself—as a way of proving my continuing loyalty?’
‘That will not be necessary. I may have questioned your judgement for a moment, but my faith in your loyalty has never wavered.’
‘Then perhaps I wish to kill him to prove something to myself,’ White said. ‘I would deem it as a personal favour, General, if mine was the hand which carried out the act.’
‘That may not be possible,’ Jones told him. ‘When the time comes to eliminate the boy, you may be otherwise occupied.’
‘In other words, you are not planning to kill him tonight?’
‘That is correct.’
White gave Jones a look that could have passed for wholehearted admiration. ‘I should have known,’ he said. ‘Like the brilliant general you are, you’re holding the boy in reserve, in case you need him again.’
Jones nodded, perhaps a little complacently. ‘It is an unlikely contingency, but I built up my reputation as a military strategist by allowing for unlikely contingencies.’
‘So when do you plan to decapitate the little nigger?’
‘Probably no later than 0-ten-hundred hours tomorrow morning,’ Jones said. ‘By then, our plan should have gained such momentum that any captive would have become no more than a liability.’
‘Is it wise to wait so long?’ White asked.
Jones chuckled. ‘You’re a strange cove, all right. One minute you don’t want me to kill the brat at all, the next you’re pressing me to get it over with as soon as possible.’
White looked a little abashed. ‘I’m thinking of security again,’ he admitted. ‘There isn’t much chance that the police will find out where you’re holding the prince—Inspector Blackstone is a dunderhead if I ever met one—but what if they did? What if Blackstone himself came here looking for him?’
‘Then he’d be as good as dead.’
‘Of course he would—if he came alone. But say he didn’t come alone. Say he brought half a dozen of his men with him?’
‘I have half a dozen of my own men here,’ Jones said.
‘Really?’ White replied. ‘I didn’t know it was as many as that.’
‘Six trained soldiers against six bumbling coppers?’ Jones said. ‘We’d deal with them in no time at all. And even if Blackstone brought half the Met with him, I don’t think there’d be much of a contest, do you?’
‘No,’ White agreed. ‘I don’t think there would be.’
Thirty-Nine
The soldiers began to assemble on the parade ground at just after dawn. The East Surrey Regiment had been deployed at one end of the field, the Scots Guards at the other. And in between them stood the ranks of native troops. It was as impressive a force as Agra had seen since the days immediately following the Mutiny. It was an army which could sweep away any opposition without even breaking step.
Captain Threlford looked on with growing trepidation. This should never have happened, he thought. He should have been more forceful earlier—should have tried to nip things in the bud while he still had a chance. He turned to his left—towards General Greer, who was mounted on his charger and surveying the whole scene with obvious glee.
Perhaps it was still not too late to stop this farce, Threlford told himself. He marched over to the General, and saluted. ‘Are you sure this is wise, sir?’ he asked.
‘I’ve never been so sure of anything in my life,’ Greer replied.
‘But, sir, the intelligence reports—’
‘There are times when you sound just like an old woman, Threlford,’ the General said.
Threlford gritted his teeth. ‘I’ve been in touch with our people in Chandrapore. Everything’s completely quiet there. Nobody’s expecting any kind of trouble.’
Greer chuckled. ‘That’s because they don’t know what I know,’ he said, patting the pocket which contained his second telegram from General Harrington.
***
Some of the wagon drivers who cut through Brook Street that early morning might have noticed that all the lights were burning in the most expensive suite in Claridge’s Hotel. If they did, they probably thought no more about it than to wonder why the rich—who had neither to collect country milk for King’s Cross nor deliver newspapers to Euston—would ever choose to be up and about at such an ungodly hour.
In the suite of rooms itself, the Maharaja, still dressed in his night clothes, was pacing his sitting room under the watchful eye of the captain of his bodyguard.
‘A message is delivered in the middle of the night, and no one thinks to detain the messenger!’ he said angrily.
‘This is England, Your Majesty,’ the captain reminded him. ‘Such a thing would not be normal.’
‘Tell me again about this messenger!’ the Maharaja demanded.
The captain suppressed a sigh. ‘I have questioned the porter on duty. He says that he does not know the man, and I believe him.’
‘And this porter noticed nothing about the man?’
‘Only that while he was dressed as a civilian, he carried himself like a soldier.’
The Maharaja held up the message, and read it for the fourth or fifth time. ‘If what this says is true, then Aggarwal is the basest of traitors,’ he said. ‘But is it true? Would he really have betrayed his lawful master in such a manner? Would he really plot against me?’
‘No one can say for certain. But if he is not guilty of the crime of which he stands accused, Your Majesty, then why is he not here to answer those accusations?’
‘You are sure that no one has seen or heard of him since he left the hotel with the ransom?’
‘Yes, Your Majesty.’
‘Then the case is proven. He has been conspiring against me. Well, he will pay dearly for it. I will see to it that he suffers in ways which will make death seem like a blessed relief.’
The captain coughed discreetly.
‘Yes?’ the Maharaja demanded.
‘If you will forgive me for saying so, Your Majesty, it is plain that if Aggarwal acted, he did not act alone.’
‘That much is obvious.’
‘And that most of his co-conspirators are probably still in Chandrapore.’
‘That, too, is so apparent that it need hardly be said.’
‘Then perhaps, rather than planning what deserved punishments should be meted out on Aggarwal, Your Majesty’s time might be better employed in considering how to deal with treachery at home?’
***
Thousands of miles away from Claridge’s, Prince Nagesh was caught up in a state of agitation quite as extreme as that being experienced by his sovereign. He, too, was pacing—though in the open air of the palace gardens, rather than within the confines of a hotel suite. And again like his cousin, he was not alone—for members of the blood royal rarely are—but was accompanied by one of his most trusted followers.’
‘Are you sure that what the telegram claims is true?’ he demanded. ‘Is it certain that this money—this twenty thousand pounds—has been paid into my account?’
‘Yes, Your Highness. I have made the bank officials check through the records three times. There can be no doubt about it.’
‘But where would a child of the gutter like Aggarwal have ever managed to lay his hands on such a huge amount of money?’
‘Perhaps he was working with the kidnappers, and it is his share of the ransom, Your Highness.’
Nagesh showed his contempt for the idea with an imperious wave of his hand. ‘Aggarwal is nothing more than a flea who rides on the backs of those greater than himself. He can be useful, I will admit that—but does a flea organize anything as momentous as a kidnapping? Can a flea ever be important enough to his fellow conspirators to be rewar
ded with twenty thousand pounds? Of course he cannot.’
‘Of course he cannot,’ the courtier agreed dutifully.
‘Yet the money must have come from somewhere.’ The prince stopped pacing and froze. ‘My poisonous cousin!’ he said softly, after several seconds had elapsed.
‘Your cousin? Is it the Maharaja you are referring to, Your Highness?’
‘Of course it is the Maharaja.’ Nagesh turned, and looked up at the balcony from which his poisonous cousin had so often gazed down on his subjects. ‘Can you not see it? Do you not understand what must have happened? Of course not. You are superior to Aggarwal only by degree, in much the same way as one flea is bigger than another. Only I can see it—because I have the heart of a tiger and the mind of a true ruler.’
‘It is true that you do indeed have those qualities, Your Highness, but what exactly is it that you can see?’
‘Aggarwal never sent that money.’
‘Did he not?’
‘No! Or if he did, it was on the instructions of my cousin.’
‘Your cousin wishes to give you twenty thousand pounds?’
‘No, you fool! My cousin wishes to see me dead.’
‘My poor brain is incapable of following your princely thoughts, Your Highness,’ the courtier said. ‘If you could make matters a little clearer for me, then perhaps I might be able to—’
‘Aggarwal could never organize a kidnapping. That much is clear. But I could! And when others learn of the money which has been placed in my account, they will think that is exactly what I did. They will believe that I plotted to snatch my own half-cousin. And when the Maharaja says that I should die for such treachery, even those who have supported me to this point will be forced to agree.’ The prince placed his hands on his forehead in a gesture of despair. ‘You understand what this means? I am already as good as dead.’
The courtier twitched perceptibly, then gazed into the far distance, towards the road which led out of the state.
‘If Your Highness will excuse me now, I have many tasks to complete on your behalf before this day is done,’ he said.
Blackstone and the Great Game (The Blackstone Detective Series Book 2) Page 20