Secrets in the Stones

by Tessa Harris

  Chapter 56

  Apparently marooned outside the King’s Mews, Professor Carruthers grew more agitated by the second.

  “But we shall miss the display,” he complained. Lydia nodded in agreement. The professor turned to his servant, who’d sat in silence throughout the journey. “Sajiv, go and see what the driver thinks he is playing at,” he instructed.

  Sajiv, however, remained motionless, his palms resting on his thighs, his eyes set straight ahead. The professor frowned. He switched to his naukar’s native tongue. “Manne samaj nathi padtee Sajiv,” he said, his tone much firmer. “I don’t understand. What is wrong?” There was still no response.

  “Is there something amiss with him?” asked Lydia, watching the servant, a puzzled look on her face.

  Carruthers shook his head in frustration. “Jaldi!”

  Just as he was about to remonstrate further, the driver suddenly flung open the carriage door. Although he was dressed in a tricorn and frock coat, Lydia noticed he was an Indian. By the look on his face, something, she knew, was wrong. Her alarm seemed to be the signal for Sajiv to act. He lunged across the carriage to land beside her. In one swift move, he drew a familiar dagger from his belt and held it to Lydia’s breast.

  “My khanjar!” cried the professor. “What the . . .” Carruthers lurched forward in an effort to save his companion, but the driver produced a dagger, too, and barred his way.

  “You right, Professor,” said Sajiv, his English broken. “This is royal menagerie, and we make special visit to one of the animals.”

  “Have you taken leave of your senses, man?” The professor’s eyes bulged with fury.

  “No, Professor,” came the servant’s reply. “I am taking my revenge. Out. Now!” He jabbed the air with his dagger, motioning his master to alight. Carruthers shuddered but reluctantly obeyed. Lydia, the khanjar now at her back, followed.

  They stood at the bottom of a flight of wooden stairs that hugged the side of a high building.

  “Up!” growled Sajiv, gesturing with the khanjar.

  “What do you think you are doing?” cried Carruthers.

  “No talk!” Sajiv screamed back.

  “There is no need for this,” pleaded the professor, holding out his arms to signify he had no idea what was happening.

  But Sajiv was unyielding. “Jaldi karo!” he screamed, jostling the professor up the stairs.

  In the gloom, they climbed up to stop in front of a door in the wall. The Indian driver unlocked it and pushed the professor and Lydia inside. The first thing that struck them as they crossed the threshold was the stink of ammonia. It stung their eyes and the backs of their throat. Lydia coughed. It took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the darkness, and when they did, she realized they were standing on a raised mezzanine platform in a huge high-ceilinged building. From the stink she gleaned it must be a stable that had never been cleaned. The orange light of the street lamps was glowing through the high grilles, but below all was in deep shadow. Suddenly something stirred.

  “What was that?” Lydia gasped.

  Sajiv, lighting a lantern, smirked. He motioned her forward to the wooden gallery railing, the rays of his lamp pooling on the floor below. Warily, Lydia peered down, and there, in the gloom, she saw something large lumbering about restlessly. She could hear it slurping and sniffling as it shuffled toward the light. Then, when she saw its eyes, small and wide set, looking out from its enormous head and its long trunk dangling from its head with ivory tusks on either side, she realized. The elephant they had seen in the park, that had shown both the majesty and the menace of its wild nature, was standing a few feet below them.

  She wheeled ’round to face her captor. More than fear, it was anger that burned inside her. “Why have you brought us here?” she demanded. She watched as the professor, too, leaned over the railings to see the elephant shuffling in the shadows.

  “What the . . . ?” Carruthers looked askance at his servant.

  “Does this bring back a memory, Professor?” asked Sajiv, still holding the khanjar threateningly. “Or should I say Doctor Carruthers?”

  Lydia switched her gaze to the professor. “What does he mean?”

  Fear flickered across the professor’s face like the candle flame in the lamp hanging on a nearby peg. He grasped the gallery rail as if to steady himself. “I don’t know what you are talking about,” he snapped, although it was clear from his expression that he did.

  “Do not lie!” Sajiv suddenly lurched forward and jabbed him in the ribs, forcing the professor to look again at the elephant.

  “No!” cried Lydia, her hands flying up to her mouth. But the naukar motioned to his accomplice. He was guarding the door, but now came forward to keep her in check while Sajiv devoted his attention to the professor.

  “Does it remind you of something?” he barked, catching hold of his master’s jaw and wrenching his head to the side. “Look,” he cried, suddenly switching back to his native tongue. He forced the professor to double up over the railings, his hand tight around the nape of his neck, so he had no choice but to look at the elephant.

  “Does it remind you of seeing a man, his hands tied behind his back, a blindfold on his head, kneeling on the dusty ground, surrounded by a crowd baying for his blood?” With each word, the Indian became more inflamed. He brought the dagger up to the professor’s neck and pressed the curved blade against his flesh.

  Seeing the professor in danger, Lydia lunged forward. “No, please!” she cried, tugging at the Indian’s sleeve, but he thrust her back with a single blow from his elbow. She lost her balance, falling to the floor.

  Still forcing the blade against the professor’s neck, Sajiv continued. He spat out his words so that spittle flecked Carruthers’s cheek. “Does it remind you of seeing the elephant slowly advance to within a few paces of the man, then, at the command of its mahout, lashing out with its trunk to knock him to the ground?”

  The professor gritted his teeth and closed his eyes for a second as the blade suddenly broke his skin. He dared not breathe, but the Indian went on, his words roiling in his native tongue and his mind caught up in a maelstrom of violent memories.

  “Does it remind you of the piteous cry that went up just before the elephant’s foot crushed his chest? Or the groan that he made as he was tossed into the air, then speared by one of the tusks?” The Indian’s eyes were wild with a mix of rage and terror as he recalled the execution. “Does it?” He pushed back the professor’s jaw.

  “Yes. Yes!” he replied, in the Indian’s own language.

  The acknowledgment seemed to break the spell for a moment. Sajiv withdrew the blade, and the professor’s chin dropped down.

  “I do, too,” said the Indian, wiping the spittle from his lips with the back of his hand. He reverted to English. “I was twelve years old and that was the last memory I have of my father.”

  Lydia had, by this time, hauled herself to her feet. “Your father?” she repeated.

  Sajiv switched his gaze to her. “Yes.” He nodded before his eyes latched onto the professor once more. “Bava Lakhani. He was a trader. A diamond trader.” He pointed to the professor with his khanjar. “And this man has his blood on his hands!”

  “You remember how you and your friends killed the miner and stole the diamond?”

  In the candlelight Carruthers’s eyes were glinting with tears. “No. No. ’Twas not like that, I swear!” he protested.

  But his protestations only served to anger the Indian, who once again thrust the khanjar to the professor’s throat. “You cut off the miner’s leg—to steal the diamond, then left him to die.”

  The professor’s hands flew up to his ears. “No. No. I refused to amputate. I couldn’t do it. It was Farrell who did it. Farrell, I swear!”

  “What!?” cried Lydia. At the mention of her dead husband’s name, she barged forward.

  The Indian suddenly turned on her, thrusting the khanjar under her chin. “Farrell. Yes. Your husband.” Released from
the servant’s grasp, the professor fell to his knees, gasping for breath. Lydia stepped backward as Sajiv now turned his fire on her. “They all in it together. They should all have been charged with killing one of the jagirdar’s miners. Not my father. He tried to save him. But Farrell, Lavington, and Flynn, they run away, and Bava Lakhani took all the blame.”

  The professor heaved himself up against the railings. “Please believe me, Sajiv. I wanted no part in it.”

  The Indian jabbed the dagger against Lydia’s bodice. “My father tell me the whole story. As he clung to the bars of his stinking jail, he tell me about the three English officers and he tell me about the map.”

  “The map?” repeated Lydia. Things were beginning to fall into place. The fear that she had held at bay for so long now began to make its presence felt. Her chest tightened and her palms became clammy.

  The Indian nodded. “The ancient map of the lost diamond fields. It was supposed to secure his future and mine and my children’s.”

  “So it was you who ransacked . . . ?” Lydia trailed off, the words cleaving to her mouth made dry by fear. She suddenly realized, too, that this silent, loyal Indian must have murdered four souls. He would surely not care about murdering two more.

  Suddenly a sound like a loud thunderclap broke overhead. The noise reverberated around the lofty stable, bouncing off the walls and ceiling. The boom set the door frame juddering. The Indian raised his eyes heavenward.

  “The fireworks,” he said. Worse still, in the darkness below, the startled elephant let out a mighty trumpet. The Indian’s lips split into an unsettling smile. “He does not like them,” he said. “They make him restless.”

  Lydia’s heart pounded. She saw her chance. Thinking of Thomas and his reasoned manner, she wondered how he might act in such a situation. She spoke in a measured tone. “Your father’s suffering was terrible, but the past cannot be changed. We cannot undo what has been done.” She paused for a moment, hoping for some reaction. There was none, so she continued. “I am sorry for what happened. I am truly sorry, but you do no good holding us here. What purpose can be served?”

  For a moment she thought her words might have made an impact on the troubled youth before her. Watching his expression, she held her breath. In the candle glow, she saw the whites of his eyes, moist with tears. She saw, too, his humanity and the fragility of his condition. He had been so wronged. Slowly, she held out her hand. She hoped he did not notice she was shaking. “Your dagger,” she said softly. He remained still, his breath rasping in his chest. She took a small step toward him and was suddenly so close that she could smell his breath, sweet and exotic, in the gloom. Then, without warning, he raised his arm and, with a roar, coshed the professor with the hilt of his dagger. He watched Carruthers fold like a rag and fall to the ground before he lunged after Lydia. In one bound he had pinned her up against the wooden pillar.

  “Tie her up!” he ordered the other Indian, and in a second she felt a coarse rope cut into her wrists as she was bound tight against the wood.

  “You are Farrell’s widow. In my country that means you must die, too. We call it suttee.”

  “Good God, no!” cried the professor, hauling himself up from the ground. He lunged at the servant. Sajiv lashed out with the khanjar, and the blade sliced through Carruthers’s coat sleeve, drawing blood.

  “No!” screamed Lydia, pulling at the bindings. But it was no use. She was held fast.

  “Down!” ordered Sajiv, pointing to the wooden stairs from the gallery with the dagger. “We go down.”

  The professor mouthed a protest, but confronted once more with the blade at his chest, he turned and started to stagger down the stairs into the darkened bowels of the enormous room. Sajiv followed, pausing only to unhook the lantern from its peg. “Down,” he shouted again.

  Chapter 57

  As Thomas walked out from under the canopy of a tree, another cascade of sparks exploded from a large scaffold a few yards away, pouring down smoke. It was swiftly followed by a burst of maroons. The explosions ricocheted around his head. Each blast was a hammer blow to his brain. The sulfur stung his eyes and nose. He coughed for want of fresh air. His head, too, was fit to burst. He needed to escape the cacophony of the battlefield. He needed to find Lydia. He quickened his pace toward the main gate, and the farther he walked away from the display, the thinner the crowd became. He could see whole people once more, not just disembodied hats and wigs. It was then that he spotted a young woman, her chestnut hair piled on top of her head. She was wearing a peacock blue dress, his favorite color.

  “Lydia!” he called, hurrying his step. She did not respond. “Lydia!” he cried again. He was within a few inches of her, and hearing his breathless approach, the lady turned. His heart sank when he realized his mistake. “Forgive me,” he told the scowling woman.

  Growing more anxious with every step, he walked on, all the while searching, his eyes latching onto every lady he saw. Within a minute he had reached the main gates, where stalls selling gingerbread and hot cross buns were ranged along the park railings. Bootblacks were doing a good trade, too, polishing the muddy shoes of those who were leaving the display. The sounds of exploding fireworks, although still loud, had dissipated with the distance. Thomas could even hear the hawkers barking their wares on the other side of the perimeter rails. But below their raucous cries, he detected something else: unfamiliar sounds, discordant and jarring in the distance. He stopped dead to listen, then hurried on through the gate. Turning to his left, he saw the great edifice of the King’s Mews up ahead. Suddenly he could make sense of the resonances; they were neighs and bleats and roars and squawks. The animals and birds in the nearby menagerie were unsettled by the fireworks. Cooped up in their cages and stables, many of the creatures had been thrown into paroxysms of fear by the deafening explosions overhead.

  What made him walk on toward the mews, he did not know. That the animals were clearly in distress rattled his nerves, but he knew he was powerless to help. Yet his footsteps took him faster and faster, and as he drew level with the great edifice, he noticed that something was not quite right. There seemed to be a flurry of activity around a side entrance. He sniffed. The familiar tang of sulfur from the fireworks already hung heavy on the air, but now there was something else. He hurried through the gate, narrowly avoiding colliding with a dark-skinned man fitted out in a tricorn and plain dress. The two exchanged wary glances, and the latter seemed agitated. He barged past Thomas, forcing him against the gatepost, and began to run toward the park. Thomas shouted after him, but there was no time to chase him, he knew that. As soon as he sniffed the air again, he understood. As the fireworks continued to pound the night sky, it seemed all hell had broken loose. Men and boys rushed around with pails of water amid volleys of shouts. Animals were braying and barking and kicking against the doors of their pens. And amid the chaos Thomas saw a stable lad tugging two blindfolded horses across the courtyard. Then he heard someone shout the dreaded word: “Fire!”

  Within a minute the courtyard began to fill with smoke. From the corner of his eye Thomas saw men hauling a wooden engine over the cobblestones. They positioned it outside one of the large stables, where smoke was arcing up from under the huge closed doors. Suddenly a loud boom buffeted the air. It caused Thomas, standing nearby, to jump. But the sound was not made by a firework. It came from inside the stable.

  “Keep clear!” shouted a hostler nearby.

  “What’s in there?” called Thomas.

  “An elephant!”

  Through the smoke, Thomas spied the outside staircase. He ran up the steep flight to the side door. As he did so, he could hear cries coming from within and a woman’s screams for help. Frantically, he tried it. It did not budge. Cupping his hands around his mouth, he shouted down: “There’s someone inside. Open the main doors. For God’s sake! Open the doors!” He stumbled halfway back down the stairs and shouted again. “Open the doors.”

  Most of the men ignored him, but one of them
shook his head. “The elephant!” he screamed over the sound of the cracking flames. “It’ll run amok!”

  Thomas ran back up the stairs and listened at the door once more. There was the cry again. Terror fused with panic as he realized the voice belonged to Lydia. There was no time to lose. He shouldered the door. It remained held fast. He tried again. Harder. This time it yielded. Inside the smoke was thick and choking. He felt his lungs fill with it immediately.

  “Lydia!” he called.

  Nearby he could hear her coughing. “Thomas!” she croaked through the fumes. “Thomas,” she called again, and he followed her voice to the pillar.

  Scrambling to untie her hands, he tried to reassure her: “You’ll be safe in a moment,” he told her.

  “Professor Carruthers,” she coughed, wringing her bleeding wrists. “He is down there.” She pointed to the flames that licked around the hay feeders below them. The elephant could still be heard, stomping and kicking the door and trumpeting loudly.

  “Get out of here!” Thomas pushed her toward the open door.

  “But . . .”

  “Out! Now!” he cried from the top of the staircase. It was iron, and as soon as he touched the banister, it seared his flesh. He squinted through the smoke but could see nothing. He ventured farther toward the blaze and suddenly felt himself stumble on something halfway down the stairs. He looked down. A leg. His eyes followed it to make out Professor Carruthers sprawled, head down, on the treads. There was no time to check if he was still alive. The fire was taking hold of the wooden pillars that supported the roof, and the elephant was still lashing out, its great bulk smashing against the wooden door as it tried to free itself. Bending low, Thomas hooked his arms under the professor’s and hauled him up the half dozen stairs. By now a group of men had stationed themselves at the door by the outside staircase at Lydia’s bidding. They knew there were men in the building. Thomas delivered the unconscious professor into their waiting arms. Then, snatching a towel from a hook on the wall, he turned to go back down.