The Perplexing Theft of the Jewel in the Crown

by Vaseem Khan

  ‘I was merely doing my duty, sir,’ said Chopra gruffly, relieved to discover that his initial guess as to the motive behind this summons had been correct, and that there was nothing more sinister behind the unexpected invite.

  ‘From what I understand, you went quite above and beyond the call,’ said Mallory. ‘You are to be commended.’

  Chopra looked uncomfortable. He threw a glance at Bomberton who was staring ahead, standing ramrod straight with his hands by his sides. Chopra wondered how long he would be able to keep his stomach sucked in before he was suddenly forced to exhale and send the buttons flying off his waistcoat. The man looked as if he was on the verge of a hernia.

  ‘I am afraid this whole exhibition imbroglio has caused quite the kerfuffle.’

  Chopra spent a moment deciphering this sentence before shaking his head. ‘Whatever happened was unfortunate, but no one is to blame apart from the thief.’

  ‘No. I suppose not.’ Mallory drummed his fingers on the desk, then continued, ‘Nevertheless, I am curious about one thing. What do you think of all this fuss being made about returning the Koh-i-Noor to your country? One has been led to understand that there has been considerable debate on the matter.’

  Chopra opened his mouth to reply and then stopped. He frowned. Poppy had warned him not to embarrass their household. But Chopra had spent his whole life speaking the truth regardless of who it might offend. He was not about to abandon his principles now. ‘I believe the Koh-i-Noor is a simple stone, not worth a thing except the value we humans ascribe to it. I believe there are things in this world that are infinitely more valuable – the happiness of a child, the miracle of love, the beauty of a generous spirit – but we are not yet mature enough to recognise this. And so, for now, the Koh-i-Noor is a symbol. It is a symbol of our past weakness because it was taken from our country at a time when we were not able to prevent that from happening. But the world has changed. We have changed. So now… now I believe that it is time for the Koh-i-Noor to return to the land of its birth.’

  Mallory stared at him with an evaluating gaze. From the corner of his eye Chopra saw Bomberton turn a deeper shade of red. He glanced at Poppy and saw that an expression of mortification had overcome her.

  ‘Well said,’ the Commissioner eventually murmured. ‘A man who speaks his mind. Sometimes one wishes there were more like you around. However, I must confess that I do not share your opinion. You say that the Koh-i-Noor represents a time when India was weak. I believe it is more than that. It represents the shared history that Britain and India have experienced. Both good and bad. By incorporating the Koh-i-Noor into the Crown Jewels the British monarchy understands the debt it owes to India and is reminded too of some of the mistakes we have made in the past. It is important that we never forget those mistakes. That is why we cannot return the Koh-i-Noor yet. But do not be disheartened. I firmly believe that one day it will come home. That is why we agreed to your government’s request to exhibit the Crown Jewels here. This was an important first step on that road, the unfortunate theft notwithstanding. You are correct when you say that the Koh-i-Noor is a symbol. And a symbol will endure no matter where it resides.’

  Chopra considered the Commissioner’s words carefully, then conceded defeat. ‘Very well, sir.’

  Mallory lifted his teacup and sipped at it, little finger extended. Poppy watched carefully and then lifted her own cup and followed his example, resisting the urge to pour the tea into a saucer and slurp at it, as was her usual wont.

  ‘At any rate, it is my understanding that there is another party to whom one is indebted. Reginald, where is the little fellow?’

  ‘I believe we have him waiting in the other lift, sir,’ replied Reginald briskly.

  ‘Well, do bring him in, there’s a good chap.’

  They waited as the aide left the room.

  He returned a few minutes later, flanked by Rogers and the armed security guards who proceeded to hold open the door. Between them, blinking in the bright light, trotted Ganesha.

  The little elephant entered the room, spotted Chopra and surged forward, coming to a halt beside him, his trunk reaching out for Chopra’s hand. Chopra understood that his young ward was presently overcome by the same nervousness and anxiety that he himself had been feeling. He had transmitted those emotions to Ganesha on the ride over in the van.

  He understood now why Ganesha had been invited along with them to the High Commission. At the time the strange request had confused him. But now he recalled that after recovering the Koh-i-Noor he had told Bomberton how Ganesha had helped him in the search of Bulbul Kanodia’s home. Bomberton had found the story infinitely amusing, particularly the part where Chopra, dressed as a clown, had fallen off the stage.

  Looking at Ganesha now, Chopra felt a surge of pride. The little elephant certainly deserved his share of the credit.

  ‘Don’t worry, boy,’ he whispered. ‘There’s nothing to be nervous about.’

  ‘Well,’ said the Commissioner, looking at the new arrival. ‘You are a handsome devil, aren’t you? What is his name again, Chopra?’

  ‘Ganesha, sir.’

  ‘Please step forward, Ganesha. Let me get a better look at you.’

  ‘Sir, I must advise against any closer contact with the, er, pachyderm,’ said Reginald. ‘I have it on good authority that they can be quite temperamental.’

  ‘Nonsense, Reginald. He’s an absolute ace. You can see it in his eyes.’

  ‘Go on, boy,’ said Chopra, patting Ganesha on the head. The elephant looked up at him uncertainly, then turned and advanced shyly towards the desk. As he reached the tea trolley, his nostrils suddenly flared. His ears flapped, revealing the little bullet hole that was the legacy of Mukhthar Lodi’s demise. Then he reached out with his trunk and deftly lifted an idli from the trolley and popped it into his mouth.

  There was a stunned silence. Then the Commissioner burst out a loud guffaw. ‘You see, Chopra. Not everyone is so eager to stand on ceremony.’

  Mallory reached out and patted Ganesha on the top of his knobbly skull. ‘You know, I spoke with the Queen just this morning. Over the years she has been presented with a great many creatures. Cheetahs, giraffes, sloths, bears, even giant turtles from the Seychelles. But the one animal she recalls most fondly is the elephant given to her by the president of Cameroon. His name was Jumbo. The elephant, I mean, not the president. What a lovely, gentle creature he was. The president, I mean, not the elephant. Jumbo himself was a bull and quite a churlish fellow, at first. Until she got to know him. I suppose if one were abducted from one’s home and sent halfway around the world as a gift for some nabob or other one would doubtless be exceedingly put out. She told me she would have preferred to send poor Jumbo right back, but protocol can be a very tricky business. Don’t you agree, Reginald?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said the aide.

  Mallory rested his gentle eyes on Ganesha who was munching away on another idli, oblivious to his audience. There was a wistful expression on his face, as if he had been transported to another time when, as a boy, he enjoyed a life free of cares and responsibility. Then he looked up.

  ‘Well, Chopra, it is customary to recognise such enterprise as you have displayed with some manner of reward. Young Bomberton here will receive his accolades back home. What may England do for you?’

  ‘I require no reward, sir.’

  ‘Nevertheless, one wishes to show one’s appreciation. As India is now a republic the Queen cannot name you in her New Year’s Honours list. However, there is something that she wishes to offer you.’

  The Commissioner slid open a drawer in his desk and took out a small ornate box. He fiddled with a catch and popped open the lid, then turned the box around.

  Inside, nestled in folds of red velvet, was a medal.

  Gold-plated and oval-shaped, with the Royal Cipher on one side and the words ‘Kaisar-i-Hind for Public Service in India’ on the other, the medal was neatly suspended from a dark blue ribbon, also trimme
d with gold.

  Chopra knew that ‘Kaisar-i-Hind’ meant ‘Empress of India’.

  ‘Queen Victoria instituted this medal in 1900,’ explained Mallory. ‘It has been awarded many times to deserving citizens of your country. Although we stopped handing these out once India became independent it has not actually been discontinued.’

  Chopra cleared his throat. ‘I cannot accept this medal, sir.’

  A trio of lines appeared on the Commissioner’s brow. ‘Now, why did I know you were going to say that?’

  ‘I intend no insult. But I cannot accept a medal that is named for an empress of India, for we have no empress.’

  There was an awkward silence, into which Chopra heard Bomberton hiss, ‘Have you lost your marbles, man?’

  ‘Oh, it’s quite all right, Bomberton,’ said the Commissioner eventually. He cupped his chin and stared at Chopra. ‘Well, you are a man who knows his own mind. And I suppose your refusal puts you in good company. Did you know that a certain gentleman by the name of Mohandas K. Gandhi also turned down this medal?’

  ‘Yes, sir, I was aware of this.’

  Mallory sighed. And then Ganesha, ever the curious child, reached out with his trunk and curled it around the box with its glittering toy. He trotted back towards Chopra lest the Commissioner decide to take back his gift.

  Mallory laughed genteelly. ‘Well, Chopra, it seems as if the choice has been made for you.’

  Chopra’s face was troubled.

  ‘Think of it as a gift,’ said the Commissioner gently. ‘A trinket from a friend to show her appreciation. Not only for the return of something very precious to her, but for the love and warmth that you and your countrymen have shown to Her Majesty during her time here. I assure you, your principles will not be compromised by accepting it.’

  Chopra hesitated. Eventually, he smiled. ‘You are very persuasive, sir. I accept. Thank you.’

  ‘Splendid,’ said the Commissioner, clapping his hands. ‘Now, how about we get back to the party so you can tell me all about how you recovered the Koh-i-Noor? One does so love a good mystery!’

  GLOSSARY

  Aam junta: the general public / the ordinary masses

  Abbu: Islamic term for Father

  Astrakhan hat: hat with dark curly fleece of young karakul lambs from central Asia

  Bajra: black millet

  Beedi: thin Indian rolled cigarette

  Betel nut: areca nut

  Bhel puri: Mumbai’s signature street food dish of puffed rice, onions, tomatoes, spices, and hot chutney and served with a tiny deep fried bread called ‘puri’

  Boondi raita: savoury dip of yogurt, spices and tiny gramflour pearls

  Brinjal: aubergine

  Carrom: ‘strike and pocket’ table game akin to table shuffleboard

  Dahl: lentil dish

  glossary

  Dhaba: a motorway curry house diner

  Dhoti: traditional men’s garment wrapped around legs and knotted at the waist

  Diwali: Hindu festival of lights

  Diya: cup-shaped terracotta oil lamp traditionally lit on Diwali

  Duffer: an incompetent or stupid person

  Eidi: gift for festival of Eid e.g. money, presents or flowers

  Ghazal: poetic form consisting of rhyming couplets and a refrain

  Goonda: thug or bully

  Hajji: Muslim person who has successfully completed the Hajj to Mecca

  Hapoos: Alphonso mango, considered ‘king of mangoes’

  Hawala: illegal method of transferring money outside of traditional banking systems

  Jagirdar: feudal landowner or landlord

  Jowar: sorghum flour

  Kabuli Biryani: traditional chickpea biryani dish from Hyderabad

  Kameez: long tunic worn by many people from South Asia, typically with a salwar

  Khansama: male cook, who often also assumes the role of house steward

  Kurta: loose collarless shirt worn usually with a salwar or pyjama

  Lakh: One hundred thousand

  Lathi: a stick / baton

  Makhani: a Hindi word meaning ‘with butter’ or butter sauce

  Masala movie: a movie embodying a blend of genres

  Masala sambar: spicy lentil-based vegetable stew

  Maya: ‘that which is not’ (i.e. illusion)

  Mawali: Mumbai slang for lowest class of male street ruffians

  Morcha: organized march or rally

  Neem: Indian tree used for its antiseptic properties

  Nukkud natak: Indian street Play

  Pajama: a pair of loose trousers tied by a drawstring around the waist

  Panchayat: a village council in rural India

  Pomfret: popular fish found in Indian restaurants

  Ram ram: a common Hindi greeting meaning hello

  Salwar: a pair of light, loose, pleated trousers, usually tapering to a tight fit around the ankles, worn by women with a kameez (the two together being a Sadhu – a religious ascetic or holy person)

  Sarpanch: elected head of the village council (the panchayat) in India

  Shatranj: old form of chess from which modern chess developed

  Shree: polite form of address equivalent to the English ‘Mr’

  Swami: holy ascetic initiated into a specific religious order

  Thaali: Indian steel platter with individual sections to serve a variety of dishes

  Vasta waza: Kashmiri term for a head chef

  Vedji: traditional Indian Ayurvedic medical practitioner

  Yaar: informal address, akin to addressing someone as ‘mate’

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Once again this book represents a collective endeavor. So thank you, first and foremost, to my agent Euan Thorneycroft at A.M. Heath and to my tirelessly enthusiastic editor Ruth Tross at Mulholland. As I see the series move from success to success their faith now seems prophetic. A big thank you to Kerry Hood at Hodder, who has worked miracles to catapult me into mags, newspapers, radio and TV – a veritable one-woman publicity machine.

  I am grateful too to others who helped improve the original manuscript. Thomas Abraham and Poulomi Chatterjee at Hachette India; Amber Burlinson, copy-editor, and Justine Taylor, in the role of proofreader.

  I would also like to thank Ruth’s team at Mulholland, Naomi Berwin in marketing, Laura Oliver in production, Dom Gribben in audiobooks, and Ruth’s assistant Cicely Aspinall. In the US thanks go to Devi Pillai, Ellen Wright, Laura Fitzgerald and Lindsey Hall, and also Jason Bartholomew at Hodder. Similar thanks go to Euan’s assistant Pippa McCarthy, and the others at A.M. Heath working hard to sprinkle the magic of this series far and wide. A thank you to Satish Garewal for voicing the audiobook.

  Yet more kudos to Anna Woodbine who designed and illustrated the novel’s cover, once again bringing the story to life with a flourish of her wand.

  Lastly, I’d like to thank those who have helped me research this work. My wife Nirupama Khan, my friends from Mumbai, and my colleagues at UCL who not only crack me over the knuckles when I make a mistake in Chopra’s crime-solving methods but have been unflagging in their support for the whole endeavor. A special thank you to my colleague Kati Carter who baked me an Inspector Chopra cake complete with icing sugar Ganesha (though his ears have subsequently fallen off – sorry, Kati!). Lastly a mention for Khurram Khan, who many years ago, when a rabid computer had swallowed an entire manuscript of an early novel – engendering in me suicidal thoughts of quitting this writing business altogether – typed up the paper draft, so that I could, and would, carry on.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Photo Credit: Nirupama Khan

  Vaseem Khan first saw an elephant lumbering down the middle of the road in 1997 when he arrived in India to work as a management consultant. It was the most unusual thing he had ever encountered and served as the inspiration for the Baby Ganesh Agency series.

  He returned to the UK in 2006 and now works at University College London for the Department of Security and Crime Scienc
e where he is astonished on a daily basis by the way modern science is being employed to tackle crime. Elephants are third on his list of passions, first and second being great literature and cricket, not always in that order.

  By Vaseem Khan

  BABY GANESH AGENCY INVESTIGATIONS

  The Unexpected Inheritance of Inspector Chopra

  The Perplexing Theft of the Jewel in the Crown

  introducing

  If you enjoyed

  THE PERPLEXING THEFT OF THE JEWEL IN THE CROWN,

  look out for

  MURDER AT THE HOUSE OF ROOSTER HAPPINESS

  An Ethical Chiang Mai Detective Agency Novel

  by David Casarett

  A fascinating mystery set in Thailand, in the vein of Alexander McCall Smith, where a nurse ethicist turns detective.

  Two nights ago, a young woman brought her husband to the emergency room of the Sriphat Hospital in Thailand, where he passed away. A nurse thinks she remembers her coming in before, with a different husband—one who also died.

  Ladarat Patalung, for one, would have been happier without a serial murderer—if there is one—loose in her hospital. Then again, she never meant to be a detective in the first place.

  And now, Ladarat has no choice but to investigate…

  CHAPTER 1

  IT IS KNOWN THAT POISON IS OFTEN A WOMAN’S METHOD

  “I have come to see you, Khun Ladarat, about a matter of the utmost urgency.”

  The comfortably built man sitting on the other side of the desk paused, and shifted his bulk in a way that prompted the little wooden chair underneath him to register a subdued groan of protest.

  “A matter of the utmost urgency,” he repeated, “and more than a little delicacy.”

  Ladarat Patalung began to suspect that this Monday morning was going to be more interesting than most. Her conclusion was based in part, of course, on the formal designation of the matter at hand as one of the “utmost urgency.” In her experience, that didn’t happen often on a Monday morning. Despite the fact that she was the official nurse ethicist for Sriphat Hospital, the largest—and best—hospital in northern Thailand, it was unusual to be confronted by a matter that could be reasonably described in this way.