The Elephant Thief

by Jane Kerr

  “Thank the good Lord!” Mrs. Jameson was pale. “We thought we’d lost you. We thought you might be …”

  This time when she brushed her fingers over his forehead, Danny didn’t flinch. He was just too tired. And when he tried to turn his head, dizziness came in waves.

  “There, lad. Don’t move. You’re all right now.” Mr. Jameson patted his arm awkwardly. “You really are all right.”

  It was a few moments before Danny realized he was lying on a grass embankment. He could hear the rumble of the River Esk nearby. How long had he been in the river? Two minutes? Two days? It might have been anything.

  Mr. and Mrs. Jameson knelt on one side, and Hetty sat on the other. He was desperate to shrink away from the attention, but he didn’t have the energy.

  “I’ve never been so scared.” To his amazement, he realized Hetty was holding back tears. She hadn’t quite succeeded. One leaked down her cheek, and he watched, curiously. It was odd to see someone crying over him; odd but not unpleasant. “I—I thought you were dead. If it hadn’t been for Maharajah—”

  “Yes. All’s fine now, Danny,” Mr. Jameson interrupted. “You’re safe. I’ve just sent Sandev and Mr. Saddleworth for help. Shouldn’t be too long. Langholm’s only about a mile away. Crimple can stay here. See to the wagon. And then we can …”

  But Danny stopped listening. His concentration was fading like daylight at dusk. He wanted to sleep but the trembling wouldn’t stop, and every time he closed his eyes, his chest tightened and he couldn’t breathe.

  A farm cart clattered down the lane a short time later. Mr. Saddleworth was sitting in the front, directing the driver. Danny knew he should get up, but his legs wouldn’t do what he told them, and neither would the rest of his body. In the end, he let the men carry him.

  The farmer drove straight to Langholm Station. Danny wasn’t sure why until Hetty explained that the Manchester train was due within the hour. He’d forgotten Mr. and Mrs. Jameson had planned to return to Belle Vue. Not that anything was making much sense. His last memory was of Maharajah collapsing underneath him. After that, everything was hazy and confused. The water seemed to have washed away his mind as well as his strength.

  From the back of the cart, he stared up at the sky. Gray clouds scuttled across the weak sun, and suddenly it came back to him in terrifying color. He remembered the shock, the terror, and the urge to give in—to let the water pull him down.

  When the cart finally drew up next to the train platform, Danny was trying hard not to be sick. Hetty hovered next to him, tucking in the towels whenever they came loose. If she’d been talkative before, it was nothing compared to now.

  “… you should have seen us, Danny. We didn’t know where you were and everyone was looking. Then Sandev whistled, but Maharajah had already gone into the water. And he saw you and scooped you up with his trunk. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  Hetty loosened the towel that covered his head, pulling it away from his face so he had room to breathe. “You might have died if he hadn’t …”

  Abruptly, she stopped, staring as though seeing him for the first time. Danny couldn’t quite read her expression. Shock? Anger? Or was it hurt? He was too muddleheaded to be sure.

  “Danny, me boy! You’re lookin’ better already.” Mr. Jameson’s face popped over the side of the cart, startling them both. He was grinning around another large cigar. “Glad to see you’re on the mend. You’ll be as right as rain in no time. You’ll see.”

  Danny didn’t need a mirror to know it was a lie. He felt terrible, but at least he’d got control over his stomach. He didn’t think he was going to be sick. Not yet, anyway.

  “Before we head off, I need a word about Belle Vue. The welcome reception’s goin’ to be big. Flags. Banners. Balloons. Everythin’. That sort of hullabaloo. I’m invitin’ the pressmen and the Mayor. Maybe the Lord Lieutenant as well. So I reckon you’d be best to arrive with about five minutes to spare. Create a bit of excitement. ‘Will they or won’t they make it?’ You know the sort of thing.”

  He turned to his wife. “What do you think, me dove?”

  “As long as Maharajah arrives before ten o’clock, I don’t care if he flies,” Mrs. Jameson said tartly. Elbowing her husband out of the way, she smoothed a hand over Danny’s forehead. He tried to sit upright, but she pushed him back down gently.

  “No. Lie still. Rest is what you need, young man. We need you fit and well, and home at Belle Vue by Friday. We’re relying on you.”

  Her last-minute instructions came so thick and fast that Danny could barely take them in. He didn’t really mind. Her fussing felt like being wrapped in another warm blanket. They were to make no more unscheduled stops; Crimple was not to touch a drop of ale; and Danny was to be taken straight to the nearest hotel and put to bed.

  She was only just winding down when Mr. Jameson pulled Mr. Saddleworth to one side. Danny strained to listen.

  “… The lad seems well enough, so I want you to start off early tomorrow. We can’t afford any more delays. And it’ll do no harm to let the newspapers know about the Prince’s river adventure. They love a bit of drama. So let’s give ’em some …”

  They walked away, out of earshot, but Danny didn’t need to hear any more. Even a near drowning couldn’t stop the Elephant Race. In fact, it had probably only attracted more publicity. He just hoped there wouldn’t be any more disasters.

  Finally, the Manchester train arrived and the Jamesons climbed on board. Danny managed to prop himself upright to wave good-bye. Mr. Jameson poked his head from the carriage window. He was still puffing on the cigar.

  “Remember what I said. Drama. That’s the key. Everyone loves a bit of excitement …”

  The rest was lost as the train steamed out of the station. Beside her husband, Mrs. Jameson waved until she was a dot in the distance. Danny felt a tug in his chest as he watched them disappear. For the last four days, the couple had guided his life like a compass. It felt strange to be without them.

  Despite her absence, Mrs. Jameson’s orders were obeyed as if they had come from the Queen herself. Wrapped in blankets, Danny was carried into a room at the town’s hotel. He lay back on the bed and sank into the warmth. It felt like floating on clouds.

  Almost immediately, Mr. Saddleworth herded Sandev and Crimple outside, but Hetty didn’t seem to want to leave. She’d folded and refolded one towel twice already.

  “Very well. Stay if you must, Henrietta. But don’t tire him. He needs rest. He did well today.”

  “Yes, Papa.”

  “And, Danny”—Mr. Saddleworth hesitated at the door—“about what I said before … Maybe Henrietta did know what she was doing. Choosing you, I mean. Well done, lad.”

  At any other time, Danny would have grabbed at the compliment; he’d wanted to prove himself, and he’d succeeded. But the silence when Mr. Saddleworth left was awkward, and he wasn’t sure why. Hetty had barely said a word to him in the last half hour—not since Mr. Jameson had interrupted them at the station. Warily, he watched her stalk to the washstand and pick up a hand mirror.

  “I think you should see this.”

  She pushed the towel away from his face and lifted the glass so Danny could see. He stared at his reflection.

  It was much, much worse than he had expected.

  The river had destroyed his disguise. The turban had unraveled and, now that his hair was dry, it stood in stiff, spiky clumps. Worse still, the black dye had leached away in patches, blotting one cheek. Even the scars on his shoulder were visible through a rip in his shirt. He looked more like a battered clown than Indian royalty.

  Danny slanted a glance at Hetty. She was staring at him.

  “You’re not really a prince, are you?”

  Slowly Danny shook his head.

  “Have you even been to India?”

  He shook his head again.

  Hetty blinked rapidly. When her eyes met his, they swam with a mixture of anger and hurt. “I just wanted to believe it was
true. I’ve never been anywhere or done anything exciting. And it all sounded so incredible.” She snatched the mirror away. “You must have thought I was stupid. Everyone must.”

  This time, Danny rocked his head more forcefully. Whatever else he thought of Hetty, she wasn’t a fool. She was quick and clever. And he suspected she’d have made a better thief than half the pickpockets in Cowgate.

  Hetty slid the mirror back, then propped herself against the washstand. It was as far away from him as she could get in the small room. Danny held his breath. Now that she knew he wasn’t a prince, would she even want to speak to him? He was surprised to find that it mattered.

  “I don’t know who you really are,” she said at last. “Or where you come from. And I know you can’t tell me. But I keep my promises. You’re not …” She seemed to struggle for the right words. “You’re not by yourself anymore.”

  Even if he had been able to talk, Danny wouldn’t have known how to reply. She’d stolen away his breath with just a few words. He wanted to speak, so badly. Inside, a war was going on. One side of him was battling to be heard, while the other had given up trying.

  Hetty watched his face for a few moments, then sighed and pushed away from the dresser. “Well, I suppose we’d better get you cleaned up.”

  With Hetty’s help, it didn’t take long for Danny to repair the river damage. He tugged on a fresh silk shirt, and she fetched a damp flannel so he could wash his face. Then together they managed to wrap a length of cloth around his head so the worst of the ruined dye-job was hidden.

  “That’s better.” Hetty smiled slyly. “Some people might even say you were handsome. Not me, of course.”

  Danny’s cheeks flamed, and he was glad when a knock on the door cut short his embarrassment. Hetty went to answer.

  “May I come in?” Danny couldn’t see the visitor, but the voice was vaguely familiar.

  “I’m sorry I’m afraid it’s not a good—”

  “Please. I really must see the Prince. It’s important.”

  Danny heard Hetty sniff. “Very well. But you can’t stay long.” She opened the door wider, and a man slid inside. His eyes flicked quickly around the room before reaching Danny. He bowed so low his slight body was almost folded in half.

  “I hope you remember me, Your Highness. Alfred Kibble, of the Hawick Express. I’ve been following the Elephant Race for the newspapers.”

  This close, Mr. Kibble barely looked old enough to shave. He had smooth skin, blond curls, and blue eyes wide with innocence. Danny imagined old ladies loved him. He probably had no trouble getting people’s stories.

  “May I sit, Your Highness?”

  Danny nodded cautiously. He was curious to find out what the reporter wanted.

  “Thank you.” Mr. Kibble grabbed Hetty’s empty chair and perched beside the bed.

  “Please forgive my intrusion, but Langholm is ablaze with stories about your river adventure. You’re certainly attracting a great deal of interest. In fact, that’s why I’m here.”

  His cheeks flushed pink. “The Times of London has asked me to write a series of articles about you. The editor loved my account of the disputed toll, and he wants more stories for his own paper. They’re thinking of calling it ‘The Life and Times of an Indian Prince.’ So I was wondering”—he leant nearer—“if I could interview you?”

  Danny’s throat dried. This was a disaster. The Prince Dandip story would never hold up to close inspection. The more detailed it became, the more likely the lies would be found out.

  Hetty answered for him. She walked in front of Mr. Kibble, blocking his view of the bed. “As I’m sure you know, His Highness doesn’t speak English. I’m afraid it’s just not possible.”

  Relieved, Danny slumped back into the pillows. Hetty wouldn’t let him down. She understood. They had to get rid of the reporter as quickly as possible so he couldn’t discover the truth.

  “That’s a great pity, Miss Saddleworth.” Like a hound on the scent of a fox, Mr. Kibble switched his attention to Hetty. Panicked, Danny realized he wasn’t giving up. “The whole of the country is interested in His Highness’s adventures. And no one else has managed to secure the Prince’s personal story. Surely there must be some way it can be done?”

  “I don’t think—”

  “Of course, I’d make certain to mention Belle Vue. The extra publicity would be sure to attract more visitors.” Mr. Kibble’s breath hitched slightly. “And to be frank, this would be a big opportunity for me. My wages support my entire family, and a reporter’s job is not always secure.”

  Danny could actually see Hetty soften. Her shoulders no longer looked quite so rigid, and a hand fluttered to her throat. He tried unsuccessfully to catch her eye.

  “Well … I suppose I could translate. My Papa is a famous animal doctor. He and I lived in India for a year, while he was looking after the King’s elephants. And I know enough of the language to get by.”

  Hetty told the lie without even blinking. Danny stared at her, horrified. What was she doing? She spoke only English, and he couldn’t even speak! Just how were they going to get away with this? He pulled hard on her sleeve. But Hetty sat down on the bed and ignored him.

  “I could act as a translator. Although, as you can see, His Highness is very tired and shaken after his ordeal. His voice is terribly weak. He’d have to whisper his answers to me.” She smiled prettily at the reporter. “Would that be acceptable?”

  Mr. Kibble frowned. “It’s a little unusual, but I see no reason why we shouldn’t try.” From his bag, he pulled out a notebook and an elegantly carved ink pen.

  Hetty inclined her head. “So what would you like to ask Prince Dandip?”

  Danny cursed inwardly. He’d been expertly trapped. There was no way of wriggling out of this, as much as he would like to. Without speech, he had about as much power as he’d had against the river.

  At first, the interview was conducted in a strange triangle. Mr. Kibble would ask a question and Hetty would lean forwards for Danny to “whisper” in her ear.

  “His Highness says he does indeed have a great love of Scotland and its people. They have been very welcoming. He would love to return one day,” she replied to one query.

  “Yes, the Prince says he would be most pleased to invite the British royal family to visit him at Belle Vue. He’s sure they would have a lot in common.”

  “His Highness is certainly enjoying his journey through the countryside and says he’s convinced they will arrive in time to win the bet.”

  Eventually, Hetty didn’t even pretend to consult Danny. To his alarm, she took the half story that Mr. Jameson had fed to the Edinburgh papers and let her imagination run wild.

  “How did the Prince’s parents meet?” She considered the question. “Well, it’s a very romantic story. The Prince’s father was a captain in the British army. He met the daughter of an Indian maharajah and it was love at first sight. But their love was frowned upon, so they ran away and were married. Eventually her father forgave them. He sent messengers begging them to return. But it was too late.”

  It was very possible Hetty had actually forgotten anyone else was in the room, Danny thought. She seemed to be lost in a dream world.

  “The captain died fighting the Maharajah’s men, believing they’d been sent to take his wife. The Princess shut herself away and refused to forgive her father. Months later, she died giving birth to their son. The Maharajah was grief-stricken. He couldn’t even bear to see his grandson. So when the Prince was old enough, he ran away. His only friend was an elephant calf. That elephant was Maharajah. Named, of course, after the Prince’s grandfather.”

  She broke off and patted Danny’s hand. “His Highness told me himself that without the elephant he would not have survived.”

  What a pile of poppycock! Danny wanted to roll his eyes, but Mr. Kibble was watching them too closely. He didn’t dare do anything but smile and nod.

  Hetty peered over at the reporter’s notebook. His pen l
ay on the paper. “Are you writing this down, Mr. Kibble? You don’t seem to be making many notes.”

  “Yes, yes, of course. I’m just finding it so … so incredible. The Times’s readers will be amazed. It’s almost impossible to believe.”

  The alarm ringing in Danny’s head became louder and more insistent. Hetty’s ridiculous fantasy could destroy everything. Mr. Jameson might think any publicity was good publicity, but Danny knew people didn’t like being treated like fools.

  “It may be hard for you to believe, Mr. Kibble. But my Aunt Augusta always told me how important it is to tell the truth. And she’s been a great influence on me.” Even Danny had to admit Hetty wasn’t lying about that. She cleared her throat. “Besides, this will make a fascinating tale for your readers.”

  “Well, yes. I suppose so.” The reporter glanced down at his notes. He picked up his pen again. “I’d like to ask you about more recent events. Edinburgh and the Wormwell auction. Did you, or the Prince, ever meet Mr. Wormwell himself?”

  Hetty looked surprised. She glanced at Danny. He shook his head. The questions were making him more and more uneasy.

  “Why, no, we never met him. Although my father did. He said … now how exactly did he put it? He said Mr. Wormwell was a good man but dreadful with money and a terrible judge of character. His death was horribly tragic.”

  “I suppose it was.” Mr. Kibble didn’t sound particularly sympathetic. He scribbled something on his pad. “If I could return to the auction. I understand that, as well as the elephant, Mr. Jameson bought several other animals?”

  “Yes, my papa shall be in charge of them, along with rest of the menagerie at Belle Vue. But they all went by train to Manchester. It was only Maharajah who refused to go.”

  “So the express was delayed while the elephant was taken off the train, along with all the other items bought in the same lot? The ropes, the harnesses, all the other essential equipment for Maharajah? Paperwork perhaps?”

  “Yes. I suppose so.”