by Nev March
That night Father Thomas took a turn for the worse. In the early morning, an elderly nun woke me with the whisper, “Come. Now, please.”
I sat with him for an hour as dawn broke and sparrows chittered outside. His hand felt thin and dry in mine, its veins blue under papery skin. His eyelids fluttered.
“James.” His tranquil face creased into a smile. Watery blue eyes opened, telling me he’d neared journey’s end, and was glad of it. “Don’t … let darkness in.”
I leaned closer, fearing that this mention of darkness meant his sight was fading. But even now he had something to teach me.
“Bitterness. Let it go. She was a good child.”
My mother. I saw her as a teenage girl, racked with coughing, unmarried and pregnant, clutching an old gold watch that she refused to sell. Coming to the Mission to end her days was a wise choice, as it gave her child a home after she died. How lonely, how desperate she must have been, and how glad of the quiet cloisters in her confinement.
Father Thomas had said she was fascinated by all things English. Only when I was born with such fair skin did he understand why. “She was so curious. Loved, above all, to hear of England,” Father Thomas had said. “It must have seemed another world.”
Learning this lifted a dead weight off me that I did not know I carried. Had I feared I was a product of violence? If so, his words erased that dread. My English father remained faceless in the shadows.
For the first time I considered the facts as a detective. I was born in 1862 or thereabouts, after the Sepoy Mutiny of 1857. I suppose the tale was common enough—an Englishman found comfort with a young woman and got her pregnant. Such loss of caste dishonored her family, so perhaps she’d run away and found sanctuary at the Mission. I pitied that poor girl, my mother, and hoped she’d found peace. The two halves of me, Indian and English, felt united in this place.
In the late morning I carried my valise down the Coolwar road, leaving Father Thomas in his quiet haven. We would not meet again—I mourned, then gave thanks that I’d come in time to see him.
Tucking the Bible in a pocket of my cassock, I set off for Ranjpoot, home of the mysterious Akbar, alias Prince Nur Suleiman. The train to Mysore was late, crowded, noisy with vendors and uncomfortable. At Mysore, the British Resident sent his carriage to bring me to Ranjpoot. As I arrived at his household, which stood adjacent to the palace, I remembered McIntyre’s warning. In princely states, the British government had little authority. Its presence was maintained by a Resident or Agent, who functioned as a liaison between the state and the different entities of British administration. As a guest of the Resident, I had a nominal status in the principality, but it offered no protection if I ran afoul of the rulers.
A mustached bearer greeted me with the news that the Resident and his wife would meet me at dinner. Since it was midafternoon, I had little to do other than dress the part. Father Thomas had furnished me with a hat and another cassock, assuring me that one could not wear the same garment day after day. He’d been shorter than I, so I tugged at the hem, and found I had accurately assessed the cleric’s parsimony—it unrolled to reveal more folds, adding four inches to the garment. I had no stockings, so black shoes tidied with a wet rag would have to do.
The shortest way to the palace was a path by the river. Designed with the flair of a medieval fortress, crenellations topped its curved stone walls. High above, a blue-turbaned guard scowled down at me. I doffed my squat cleric’s hat to him, and continued. The palace had three levels, each bordered by a terrace. Thick vines tangled over the marble balustrade. A cluster of pink flowers brushed my feet. Lapacho blooms, like those at the Mission. They reminded me of the petals strewn over white stairs at Framji Mansion. Peach, like the dress Diana had worn at her dance. Scooping up a flower, I pressed it into Father Thomas’s book.
Turning toward the town center, I saw a group of boys in an open maidaan field, kicking what appeared to be a small pumpkin. Football?
As I watched, the ball came straight at me. I grinned. Had I not done just the same years ago, sent my ball careening toward Father Thomas? Just as he had, I stopped the ball and sent it back to the lads with a well-placed kick. They cried out in appreciation, chased it and sent it back. Apparently, I was standing near their goal.
The day was fine—cloudy and mild, with a cool breeze from the river. What the heck. I put down my hat and glasses, kicked off my shoes and joined the game. Raising the cassock so as not to trip, I raced down the maidaan. When I lost the ball to a young chap who goaled, I thumped him on the back in congratulations.
“Paji!” he chortled, in Hindustani. “You can run!”
It brought me back to the present and my aching knee, so I ruffled the lad’s hair and shook hands with the beaming boys.
A young man may do many things without attracting notice. Playing ball while dressed in a priest’s robe is not one of them. As I retrieved my hat and spectacles, a pair of carriages caught my eye. Two horse-drawn barouches stood on the road, drapes parted. As I watched, a sais clicked to the mares and set them trotting toward the palace.
* * *
“Was that you playing football, Father?” said Mrs. Gary, the Resident’s matronly wife, at dinner that evening.
Choking on the sherry to be seen running about barefoot, I chuckled. “Rather.”
While eager to investigate Ranjpoot, I needed to establish myself with the Resident and his wife first. Although reserved, their welcome was polite and undemanding—I’d let down my guard during the lavish meal, served upon magnificent china.
“The Rani noticed you. Did you know?” said Sir Peter Gary, the Resident. An aged, thickset officer, he’d held several diplomatic posts over the last decade. “You’re invited to the Durbar tomorrow.”
“Indeed!” So I’d get inside the palace. Exploring it was another matter.
“Quite,” said Sir Peter, smiling. “I can’t call you Father, you know. I’m old enough to be your grandfather.”
“At the seminary, we were called Brother,” I offered.
“Brother Thomas,” said Mrs. Gary, “Mr. McIntyre said you’d been in Lahore recently. What was it like?”
I obliged with a description of my visit to the bazaar, and the chaos when I’d blundered into the frontline. That topic carried us through dessert. Mrs. Gary, a skilled conversationalist, soon had me describing my travels with Razak. I skipped over how I met him as well as General Greer’s part in that adventure. Sir Peter, however, noticed the omission.
“The mountain village? Where was that?”
“Near Pathankot.” I went on to describe Razak’s parents and their joy in recovering the boy, seeing Mrs. Gary’s delight in the tale.
After the clock chimed ten, Mrs. Gary rose with a sigh. “Well, gentlemen, I’ll leave you to smoke, shall I?” As I rose to my feet, she said, “Such nice manners. Your mother would be proud,” and swept out.
“Hmm,” said Sir Peter. “You’ll have met William Greer of the Simla garrison. He’s General Greer now?”
“I’ve met him.”
“Will he remember you?”
Sir Peter might just call Greer on the telephone I’d seen in his study, but Greer would recall no cleric called Thomas Watson. “Possibly. It was a small matter. I recovered something he’d misplaced in Pathankot.” I hoped that was enough for Greer to pick up on.
“I see. Mrs. Gary enjoyed your conversation a great deal. We don’t have many English visitors here.” Sir Peter smiled, eyes crinkling. “You did rather well tonight. Not bad at all. Avoid discussing the royal succession and you’ll do all right tomorrow.” He met my surprised look. “McIntyre said you were a fake, of course.”
Bollocks, I thought. “Did he, now.”
Sir Peter sat up. “Aha! There’s the real man. So, Watson—that your real name?”
I shook my head but offered no alternative.
He smiled again. “He said you’d been to Pathankot. The great game, eh? To be young again. You’re ex-mil
itary of course. What was your rank?”
“Captain.”
“Should have stayed in service. Chap like you could make Colonel!”
“With an Indian last name?”
Was the old soldier shocked? Would he draw back, lips tight, affronted to know I was Indian? Surprised, he said, “You’re … er…”
“Eurasian,” I said.
His face fell, so I made a joke of it. “Half-caste, as they say, touch o’ the tar-brush. Coolie. Yellow. Or just chee-chee—dirt.” I grinned to show I took no offense.
“Ah. Pity, that.” His lips puffed out. “Well, Captain, what’re you really after, in this dull little backwater?”
Sir Peter’s eyes glowed as he leaned toward me, an old soldier ready to embark on a new adventure. An unexpected ally, and one I might sorely need. Here was the sort of upstanding officer I had grown to admire in the army. Since McIntyre felt he deserved the truth about my subterfuge, I told him about Akbar, and together we formulated a plan. It was well after midnight that we said good night.
I suspected Akbar of kidnapping Mrs. Enty—if she was held in Ranjpoot, how could I find her? Doctor Aziz had brought Kasim to Ranjpoot, but where was Kasim now? And what were the contents of that mysterious letter that Akbar had used to blackmail the Framji ladies?
CHAPTER 48
MAGIC
As I followed Sir Peter and Mrs. Gary into the palace’s Durbar Hall the next evening, Akbar was easy to spot. Tall and well built, turbaned and plumed, he stood beside the throne.
Gilt work of striking artistry covered the Durbar’s high ceilings and walls. Freshly painted, perhaps? At its center, the Rani perched on a high throne, which glowed on jeweled feet, lit by the slanting rays from a single casement high above. Viziers and members of her household gathered at its base.
I waited behind the Resident and his wife, as a heavily turbaned retainer announced us in sonorous tones, “Sir Peter Gary and Mrs. Gary, and Father Thomas Watson.”
We approached, and made our bows: a short nod from Sir Peter and curtsey from his wife. I gave a traditional greeting, hands joined. Other dignitaries followed, wearing ornate finery and outlandish uniforms. More than one bore a sabre at his waist. This went on for half an hour.
The Rani rose, made a short speech of welcome, after which, to my surprise, she shuffled down her stairs and departed.
“Is that all?” I asked Sir Peter.
“No, we’ll wait.” He sighed. “There’s a dinner, but first we mingle.”
Sir Peter conferred with a Vizier while Mrs. Gary spotted a pair of Englishwomen. With their help, I acquainted myself with the personages in the hall. Mrs. Gary told me the aging Pat-Rani was eager to name her heir, but the only son her husband had sired was a seven-year-old, born after the Raja’s death.
“Big question is,” said Mrs. Gary, “who will be Regent, after the Rani?”
“Who are the contenders?”
She pointed them out, the Raja’s brothers, standing beside Akbar, and Akbar himself. “Prince Akbar Suleiman’s father is the one with the great beard. He’s the queen’s brother,” she said, “but Akbar controls the treasury.”
At last the herald called out something long and convoluted, and the audience dispersed. As the contingent to be honored with dinner, we waited.
* * *
Dinner was set up on a wide balcony. Along with the Rani and the royal contenders for the throne, three English couples and a pair of engineers, hired to examine waterways, made up the company.
Head of the table, the Rani was flanked by her kin, attendants standing behind them. Immediately after the soup course, she dropped into a doze. Mrs. Gary shrugged. “Queen Victoria nods off as well, you see. So it’s all right.” She permitted herself a small smile.
“Father Watson, do you only speak with women?” asked Akbar from across the table. Strikingly handsome, with a dark mustache and flashing eyes, he was about my age. His strong voice had a marked English accent. Was he suspicious of me or simply baiting a young cleric?
Peering through my plain lenses, I smiled. “Indeed no, sir. We of the cloth are happy to speak with all who wish to converse.”
“We need no missionaries. We’ve plenty of priests, Brahmins of the highest caste. And we don’t need the Bloody English either.”
His comment sent a ripple of discomfiture over our dinner companions. Sir Peter’s lips tightened at the slight, but he did not look surprised. So the prince’s appalling manners were nothing new.
“We have our Princes, Rajas, Ranis and Ranas, much as you English have your Dukes and Earls. A united Indian monarchy would solve many problems!”
He was referring to the 1857 Sepoy Mutiny—if it had succeeded, Indian nobles would have wrested India from the British. Instead, the co-conspirators were killed, the old Moghul emperor exiled, his sons and grandsons executed. A united Indian monarchy? It was an impossible dream. Princes were barred from making treaties with each other. But Akbar’s was no idle remark. To act on it was sedition! Traitors had been jailed, exiled, even executed for less, their families discredited for generations. Designed to shock, his bald statement silenced my dinner companions. A bland observation was called for.
“We each have our role,” I said placidly.
“Is that so? What is it you do, Priest?” he snapped.
Seeing this as a good time to implement the plan Sir Peter and I had concocted, I smiled genially around the table. “A cleric’s job is to listen, to counsel, and sometimes, to entertain.”
This garnered some interest, for the others were eager for a distraction. To begin, I placed Father Thomas’s old Bible on the table, pushing it to the center.
Plucking a grape from a bowl of fruit, I held it aloft. “For example,” I said, “I can make this grape disappear.” When I popped it into my mouth, the company grinned.
I picked up an orange. “A larger object, you agree?” I waved it about, tossed it over my shoulder onto the lawn, making a flourish with the other hand. “And it disappears too.”
The ladies chuckled.
“Rather more difficult to bring it back, but I will try,” I said. To the man on Sir Peter’s right, “Good sir, would you examine the floor by your shoe? Yes? There it is.”
He held up an orange, much to the amusement of my dinner companions. Someone clapped. Akbar sneered, singularly unimpressed.
“What, no parable, no lesson?” asked one of the ladies with an indulgent smile.
“I’m rather new at this, Madam,” I admitted. “One more? Here I have a rather insignificant object.”
I unfolded a piece of paper containing the tiny bead I had found on the floor of the clock tower gallery. This I handed to Mrs. Gary, who examined and handed it to the lady on her right.
“It will appear in a man’s pocket. May we have a tray, please?” I asked a bearer, who hurried forward with a silver platter. “Please examine the contents of the pockets of someone wearing…” I pinched the bridge of my nose for effect, and said, “green.”
“Oh good,” said an engineer in black tails. “That’s just those two.”
The Rani’s brother and a young sallow-faced attendant both wore green jackets. The tiny size of the bead had convinced me that it might have lain, all this time, in Behg’s or Akbar’s pocket. Maneck had mentioned Akbar’s fancy clothing on the day the Framji ladies died, but I could not know if he’d wear it today. I was simply shaking trees to see what fell out.
I rose and inquired of the nobleman, “Sir, would you permit the bearer to have a look?”
He agreed in good humor and emptied his pockets onto the silver tray. No bead emerged.
“No?” I said, disheartened, “would you check the lining?”
Unsuccessful, I turned to the young attendant and made my request. But he screwed up his face and refused.
“Come on, Kasim,” said Akbar, impatiently, “let him check.”
Kasim!
I could scarcely believe it! Akbar had called his atten
dant Kasim. The Framjis’ servant boy Kasim was Akbar’s man! So here was the boy who had a hold over Pilloo, who came to Ranjpoot with Doctor Aziz.
He complied sullenly, placing a hand on the table as he disgorged his belongings. On his wrist a cobra was tattooed, head rearing to strike. A Naag, a cobra tattoo! Where had I heard of this? I recalled McIntyre’s report, buried in Adi’s notes. Akbar’s henchman, Saapir Behg, had a snake tattoo on his right hand. For the second time in minutes I felt the thrill of discovery. Perhaps this second revelation should not have surprised me. Kasim was Saapir Behg, Akbar’s accomplice. Kasim had not simply met Akbar and Behg, he was Behg.
The bearer still stooped, holding the silver tray. Feigning nonchalance, I asked the servant to examine Kasim’s pockets again. Nothing remotely similar to the bead was found. But my magic trick had, in fact, flushed out my quarry. Behg, who carried a Naag tattoo, was the servant boy Kasim.
I felt astonished at the rapidity of these revelations. Since it would not do to draw attention to my discovery, I would close the show as planned. A glance around the table proved that what seemed a long moment to me was no more than an acceptable pause.
“I’m not very good, I’m afraid,” I said. “Sometimes the stuff doesn’t show up. Mrs. Gary, is that a flower in your brooch?”
“Why yes.” She handed the pink bloom over. Sir Peter had followed instructions perfectly.
“And goodbye.” I tossed the flower over my shoulder. “Never fear, Madam, it will return. Mrs. Canberry, would you open my book to John, verse ten?” I pointed to my old friend’s Bible, into which I’d pressed a bloom. It was found. I handed it to Mrs. Gary to a round of applause.
“Magic—how is it done?” demanded Akbar. “It’s a trick, of course.”
“Ah, yes,” I agreed. “The trick is to seem to break the laws of nature. The laws of man are frail, perhaps, but not those greater laws.”
“Rubbish,” said Akbar, “I am the law.”
The guests paused, glancing at each other. As I searched for a bon mot to lighten the mood, the Rani stirred and picked up the paper containing my bead. The wily old bird. She’d not been asleep at all!