by Jon Cleary
“Oh yes. Canterbury insisted that only he can crown the monarch and if he’d come out here and made it a Christian ceremony, you can imagine how the Hindus and Muslims would have felt. It’s not public knowledge yet, but there’s going to be no actual crowning ceremony. The King will put his crown on before he leaves his tent . . . No, Lathrop, there are too many factors to be considered. We’ll have to take the risk, keep a very close eye on your plotters and see that no attempt is made on the King’s life.”
“Why can’t kings stay at home?” said Lathrop plaintively.
“Exactly,” said Hardinge, who did not like being Number Two in India, even to his sovereign. “My grandfather, when he was Viceroy, said a prayer every day that Queen Victoria would never come to look at India.”
Lathrop went away, feeling proud, as he always did, at the continuity of families who had kept India together. Yet he could feel the unravelling, as in a rope left too long to the elements, in the continuity. There was enough Indian influence, if not blood, in him to make him superstitious; and he was troubled by the portent of what the King was to announce tomorrow at his coronation. Lathrop was one of only twelve men in India and an equal number in London who knew that tomorrow it would be announced that the capital of India was to be moved from Calcutta to Delhi. There would be cries of distress from the merchants of Calcutta as there had been when Simla had become the alternative capital for eight months of the year; the senior civil servants and army brass would not take readily to having to set up new establishments and new residences in a city that still had to be built. None of that worried Lathrop; as head of the Political Service he spent a good deal of his time travelling anyway. What disturbed him was the superstition, based on India’s history, that any ruling power moving to Delhi was planning its own demise. Irrational ideas itch more than logic.
Bridie and Lady Westbrook went to visit Karim Singh in hospital, partly out of true concern for him and partly as a change from the entertainment that was beginning to swamp them. Bridie was surprised at her own reaction to seeing him with his hair in a top-knot: India, she decided, looked its best in a turban. Her Irish romanticism was overcoming her Irish aversion to things English: she was beginning to see only the best in the Empire, was turning a blind eye to its sins. If she stayed here long enough she would be a female Kipling.
“I’m falling for the theatre of it all,” she told Lady Westbrook.
“We’ve done a lot of good here, m’dear. We have well-deserved black marks against us, but all in all we’ve done more good than harm. Even Prince Sankar will realize that when he and his chums try to run India on their own.”
Karim Singh, a true son of Empire, was out of bed and sitting in a chair when his visitors arrived. He winced as he stood up and was sharply told by Lady Westbrook to sit down again. “Sit down, you silly chap! What are you doing out of bed?”
“Stretching my legs, memsahib. Tomorrow I am going to see the King. The Major has arranged that I shall get a marvellous view, with a telescope and all—”
“Ridiculous! You’re in no fit condition—”
“I am going to be there, memsahib.” Karim had never allowed himself to be browbeaten by a woman, not even this titled English lady. Discretion was only for serious occasions, like being shot at or stabbed. “It is something that will never happen again and I must be able to tell it to my grandchildren.”
Lady Westbrook couldn’t argue with such sentiment. She already had her grandchildren and suddenly she wished they could be here with her tomorrow. To see the theatre of Empire . . . “Well, do be careful, Karim Singh.”
On the way back from the hospital Lady Westbrook, having just played hospital matron, assumed the role of matchmaker again. “How is your affair with Clive progressing?”
“Am I having an affair with him?” Bridie had learned not to be offended by her bluntness.
“For want of a better word . . . Don’t let’s beat about the bush. I’m not asking if you’ve been to bed with him. But you are in love with the man and I’d hate to see you go to waste. What are his intentions?”
“Dishonourable, I think.”
“Good. That never hurts as a temporary measure. It means he’s interested. But it’s the long term we’re interested in.”
“We?”
“Of course. I haven’t known you very long, m’dear, but you have become one of my favourite people. And Clive has always been one. Nothing would please me more than to see you become the favourite of each other. You don’t have much time to work in. What are your plans when the Durbar is over?”
“Clive has some leave and he is coming down to Bombay to see me on to the ship for home.”
“Then that’s when you have to see he makes up his mind. Be irresistible, m’dear.”
“I’ll work on it.” But Bridie wondered if being irresistible would be enough. She had come to India without a thought in her head about the future and now the future looked bleak.
For his part Farnol had more than love and his personal future on his mind. He was seeing the Baron: “We want you to put some pressure on Herr Monday. We have intercepted two cable messages he has sent, one to Krupps and the other to DWM. They are coded, but we know they are orders for field guns, rifles and machine-guns.”
The Baron shook his huge head. He had been fortunate in securing a small camp of two tents for his own use; it had been suggested by the Commissioner for Accommodation that he should share with the Swiss Consul-General, but he had vetoed that. His own neutrality was enough of a burden without having to listen to the sanctimony of the Swiss.
“I can remember a time when gentlemen didn’t read each other’s mail. Whatever happened to honourable conduct, Major?”
“I think it finally disappeared round the time of Metternich, Baron.”
“You’re far too cynical for a young man, Major.” He sighed, thinking how much better a world it would be if cynicism, like hardening of the arteries, were an affliction only of the aged. “What do you want me to do with Herr Monday?”
“We don’t want anything of this to get into the open. If possible, we should rather that the Mondays left of their own accord than have to deport them. We can do that if it’s necessary, but His Excellency is all for everything being done as quietly and with as much decorum as possible.”
“Every inch a gentleman,” said the Baron, not meaning to sound cynical. “One has to admire the English upper classes. They do everything so much better than we Germans do.”
Like remembering to lift the little finger as they passed the cup of poison. But Farnol, who was too worried to concern himself with scruples or decorum, was glad that H.E. was backing Lathrop and himself all the way. “His Excellency would appreciate it, Baron, if you could give us an answer by this evening.”
“What sort of answer?”
“If you could persuade Herr Monday to send a further cable cancelling his orders—?”
“That may be difficult, Major.” The stump of his arm ached as it had when it had first been amputated. He had been a soldier then and diplomacy had not been necessary; and pain, it seemed, had been easier to bear. “However, I shall do my best.”
“One can’t ask for more than that, Baron. No, don’t get up.” The old man looked tired and spent. “When this is all over, I should like to spend an evening with you. Perhaps you would care to tell me what life was like in Europe when you were young.”
“Simpler, Major. Much simpler.”
In another part of the tent city the Ranee of Serog was living her usual simple life of diamond-festooned lechery. Resigned to not being able to lure Clive Farnol into her bed again, she had cast an eye over what else was on offer and decided on three young subalterns, one from the Bengal Lancers, one from Mayne’s Horse and, thinking of a trip to London next year, one from the King’s entourage. The young men each thought that he was the only favourite of this beautiful, depraved woman. The Bengal Lancer, living up to his name, was her particular favourite and was marked
down for future use.
Mahendra, observing all this lust on the part of his half-sister, was hard put to restrain his natural prudery. But in the interests of revolution he only smiled at her assignations. This unexpected condonation troubled her and, sometimes at the wrong moment, reduced her pleasure. A woman’s passion, unlike that of a man, can be cooled by suspicion.
Meanwhile Prince Sankar, playing his role as the Rajah of Pandar, went about the tent city paying his respects to other rulers. He visited no less than forty-four princes, all of them known friends of the British Raj, and Lathrop’s informers, the road-sweepers, water-cart wallahs and gharry drivers, reported this social round and left Lathrop more wondering and worried than before.
“The bugger’s playing games with us, Clive.”
“So long as he remains visible . . .”
“He’s too bloody visible. It’s as if he’s nominated himself as the decoy.”
“Are Bertie and Mahendra being watched?”
“Twenty-four hours a day. I’ve been keeping an eye on Bertie myself. I think he’s the weak link in their scheme. He looks sick to death with something on his mind. Perhaps we could bring him in—?”
“He may look sick, George, but Bertie’s a damn sight tougher than you think. I’m just puzzled why he’s mixed up with Sankar—it can’t be just a family thing.”
“It could be money. He’s a profligate bugger.”
“He was talking about the expense of everything on his way down from Simla . . .” Then Farnol shook his head. “No, surely a chap wouldn’t get himself into such murderous company because of money?”
“Clive, you’re naïve about money and its need by some people. History is full of buggers who needed money more than they did their friends.”
“So what do we do? Concentrate on Sankar?”
“There’s no alternative. He’s the ring-leader—or if he isn’t, then we haven’t spotted anyone else. Har Dayal, Madame Cama and the others we know about are all still out of the country. No, it’s Sankar, I’m afraid.”
“Mahendra?”
“He worries me, but not that much. I was talking to Mala last night about him—” He let his monocle drop. “Don’t jump to conclusions. It was at Jodhpur’s reception—the good wife was there keeping an eye on me. Mahendra was there with Mala and she told me he was on his very best behaviour. The boy’s insane, I’m sure, but perhaps he’s getting over it. Maybe insanity is like epilepsy, one can grow out of it. Afraid I don’t know enough about that sort of thing. Tried to read some books on the subject, but I gave up. Chaps were using terms that made me mad. Suppose I’m old-fashioned, but we all have a fault or two.” He put his monocle back in, smiled. “You and I have less than most.”
Farnol smiled in agreement, left and went to take Bridie on a picnic out along the Jumna River. He had borrowed a small victoria from his father and they drove out through the hot golden morning, turned on to a side road and found themselves beside the ruins of a small temple. Behind them a market garden stretched back to the main road; across the olive-brown river a village was piled like a heap of white blocks, a decoration of flood markings showing on the walls. A caravan of camels moved in their slow-motion walk along the opposite bank, all their riders seemingly slumped in sleep. The river ran sluggishly and above it the hawks planed in lazy circles as if too enervated to look for a direction. A lone, sparsely-leafed tree stood beside the temple ruins and Farnol despatched some crows from it with a shout and spread out a rug in its thin shade.
It was not the most romantic spot: the smell from the river was stronger than Bridie’s perfume. She had sprinkled it on a little more liberally than usual: she was being irresistible. The spot, as Farnol said, was not the best, but it did give them room to get closer to each other. It had been very difficult to get close to each other in the crowded reception tents where they had so far spent all their time together.
“When are you leaving Bombay?”
“The ship leaves a week from today.”
He already knew the sailing date, but lovers like a little torture. “I think we should leave for Bombay tonight.”
She lay down on the blanket, put her head in his lap and looked up at him. “Having a few extra days together isn’t going to solve anything. I’d just feel you were spending more time with me so that you had to spend less time on your problem here. Anyway, I can’t leave Delhi till the King is safely through the Durbar.”
“You think more of your editor than you do of me.”
“Darling.” She sat up, grabbed him by the ears and kissed him savagely. A Most Improper Bostonian, she wanted to tear his clothes from him, to be made love to on the banks of the Jumna.
He wanted to tear the clothes from her, make love to her; but not on the banks of the Jumna. Looking through her hair he saw the market gardener, two women and four children leaning on their hoes watching how the idle Europeans filled in their mornings. “We have an audience, my love.”
“Damn!” She sat back, looked at the spectators, then waved to them. They shyly waved back, but didn’t move away; this was better than digging up greens. Bridie straightened her hair, then burst out laughing. “I must tell Toodles Ryan about this.”
“I want to marry you,” he said seriously.
“I want to marry you, too.” She stopped laughing, took his hand, turned her back on the market gardener and his family. “But I could never become an army wife, darling. I’ve enjoyed India—well, not enjoyed it. I’ve found it fascinating. But I could never live here.”
“I know nothing else. Oh, a little of England, but not enough. I’d be completely at sea in America. What would I do? I’m a soldier. The U.S. cavalry wouldn’t want me telling them how to fight the Indians.”
“Maybe you could work for my father as a trainee ward boss.”
He smiled. “I think I’ve had enough of politics.”
“Do you have any money?” Her mother had taught her to be practical about certain matters.
“I suppose so.” He’d always had more than enough to pay his mess bills, buy his uniforms, run some polo ponies. He supposed a wife would cost a good deal more. “I’ve never really thought about it.”
The market garden family had been joined by relatives and friends: a small crowd was gathering amongst the greens. A boat came across the river and two men and four women got out and stood on the bank looking up at the Europeans. Some crows came back and sat on the walls of the ruined temple. Farnol looked at the brown crumbling stone of the temple, saw the faint outline of a frieze of figures, all the heads turned towards him and Bridie. Even the gods were spectators.
“Let’s go back.” He almost roughly jerked her to her feet, angry at the onlookers and the choice that lay before him. Why couldn’t he have fallen in love with some colonel’s daughter? But he had tried to; and with half a dozen princes’ daughters. He had done his best to marry India, but always in the end he had held back. He did not want to hold back with Bridie, but was not sure he could marry America.
They rode back to New Delhi, though it was not yet called that and neither of them knew that it would be. They were quiet and unhappy, but not with each other, just with their circumstances.
II
The Baron took the glass of Krug ‘04 that Magda handed him. He had sent for the Mondays, ostensibly to have a drink with him, and as soon as they had arrived he had dismissed the bearer and asked Magda would she play hostess. She had been delighted, sure that all was forgiven and that Zoltan and Heir Baron were from now on to be the best of friends.
“This is marvellous champagne, Herr Baron.” She smiled and raised her glass to him.
“It is the last of a case that Baron von Wangenheim sent me from Constantinople.” He knew they knew the German ambassador to Turkey; they had probably drunk the same champagne at Wangenheim’s table. “I forget what the occasion was.”
“Champagne shouldn’t be kept just for occasions,” said Magda.
“My wife would bathe in it
if one could get it out of a tap.” Zoltan Monday sat back, relaxed and happy. A half-million-pound order already on the cable wire to Essen and more to come; he could see himself being moved to the very top of the line of Krupps agents, being invited to Germany to dine with the Krupp family at the Villa Hügel. But first he would take Magda south to Ootacamund for a couple of weeks and there in the tropical hills they would laze and make love. But always with an eye on the open door, to get out of the country before the bloodbath began. He had a cardinal rule: an arms salesman should never allow himself to be caught up in a war. “I try to tell Magda that such a beautiful drink should not be wasted like that.”
The Baron looked at Magda, imagining her naked in a bath of Krug ‘04. It would not be such a waste. Or perhaps it would be, for he would not be able to do anything but sit and admire and regret. He put down his glass.
“Herr Monday, I am told you have sent a big order to Krupps and DWM for field guns, rifles and machine-guns.”
The champagne abruptly turned sour in Monday’s mouth. “Who told you that, Herr Baron?”
“It is of no matter. The English know all about it. I am giving you an order of my own now. You are to send a cable to Krupps and DWM that the consignment is not to be sent, that the English know of it and plan to confiscate it.”
“With all respect, Herr Baron, the English knowing about the consignment won’t make any difference, at least not to Krupps and DWM. My clients are taking delivery of it outside the borders of India. What happens to it after that is no concern of ours.”
The Baron was prepared for that argument. He had sat all day counting the years past against the few still to come, weighing honour against ambition. He had none of the latter now and that made it easier for him.
“It is my concern, Herr Monday. The consignment must not be delivered at all, neither within the borders of India nor outside them. I do not think German firms should be party to revolution within a country with which we ourselves are not at war.” Not yet: but he managed not to say that.
Magda sat quietly, the champagne in her glass forgotten. She was completely amoral about business. Profit and commission were her only criteria. But she was not without compassion and she could see that the old man was as troubled as her husband.