The Satapur Moonstone

by Sujata Massey

  “What was the cause of death?”

  “Our local Indian Medical Service doctor, Graham Andrews, performed the autopsy. He said the prince was mauled by an animal—most likely a leopard or tiger.” Wincing, he added, “The culprit was not found.”

  Perveen looked at the smothered chicken and knew she wouldn’t be able to eat any more.

  “Sorry,” Sandringham said, putting down his own silver.

  “It’s all right. I’m not too delicate to hear things like that.” Perveen forced normalcy into her voice. “I’ve know very little about the late Maharaja Mahendra Rao. Was he ill from cholera for a long time?”

  “It happened in 1919 and was quite sudden.” Sandringham detailed how the forty-one-year-old Maharaja Mahendra Rao had taken a personal interest in the well-being of his subjects. When cholera broke out in one of the villages, he traveled to speak to the people about the importance of quarantine and taking medicine, since Dr. Andrews had been turned away. The maharaja came into contact with a villager who was ill, and then caught the disease himself. “Despite Dr. Andrews’s best efforts and twenty priests’ prayers, he died five days later.”

  “What a loss.” Mahendra Rao sounded like a noble who’d died trying to help others—not the usual picture of an imperious, decadent maharaja.

  “Yes. McLaughlin wrote that the late maharaja was very interested in progress—in using the land’s resources for community gain, in modern health practices, education.”

  Sir David had said that the political agent was almost entirely in charge, but she felt curious about how this inexperienced, casual young man approached things. She began with an easy question Sir David had already answered for her. “So if the maharaja’s gone and his only surviving son is underage, who is making decisions?”

  “The late maharaja’s brother, Swaroop, serves as prime minister.”

  She was startled that Sandringham hadn’t talked about his own role. “He makes the decisions, not you?”

  He shrugged. “Nothing has come across my desk that raised concerns something needed to be done differently.”

  In her mind, a hands-off British government was a good idea. But she wanted to know more about the prime minister. “I’ve heard just a little about Prince Swaroop. He owns some very fine horses at the Royal Western India Turf Club.”

  “He’s also reputed to have a lavish bungalow on Malabar Hill where his mistress of five years stays.”

  “Is he more often in Bombay than at the palace?” Perveen had noted the sarcasm in Sandringham’s tone.

  “I don’t know. The prince and his wife have their own palace about four miles from Satapur Palace. I get occasional letters from a palace officer, but they don’t offer much other than saying the family’s health is good.” Sandringham shifted, looking uncomfortable at Perveen’s challenging his lack of involvement. “Frankly, since the allotted crops are being delivered on schedule to the government, nobody’s felt a need to be involved. It really is the maharanis’ letters that have gotten my attention.”

  “I’m surprised the uncle can’t decide the schooling for his nephew, the young maharaja,” Perveen said.

  Mr. Sandringham smiled wryly. “Remember, the dowager maharani Putlabai is the prime minister’s mother. What man would cross his mother?”

  As a solicitor, Perveen had witnessed plenty of situations where adult children dominated their parents and sometimes treated them very badly. But there was no point in arguing when she needed to know more. “Do the maharanis know you’re sending me to talk to them?”

  “I sent them a letter advising that P. J. Mistry, Esquire, would come calling.” Sandringham gave her a long look. “My letter did not mention your gender. My goal was to catch them off guard.”

  “Ah. So that if they refuse on the basis of gender, I can take off my hat and let them see who I am!” Perveen imagined it as a piece of theater: a suspense drama without a script. “I think if the women want a resolution to the education conflict, they’ll be eager to admit me. I’ll get the situation sorted out.”

  “Sorted!” Sandringham repeated slowly. Then he snapped his fingers and laughed.

  “What is it?” Perveen was disconcerted.

  “During your Oxford days, did you ever play cards?”

  She was taken aback. “Certainly. But I played in the evenings at St. Hilda’s with other women.”

  He looked disappointed. “Nobody else?”

  She thought hard. “I played bridge once with a mixed group at Brasenose.”

  “Yes!” He thumped his hand on the table. “Yes! There was a most exciting bridge club meeting where two female students came unchaperoned—one Indian and one English.”

  Perveen laughed aloud. “Mr. Sandringham, you’re speaking about my good friend Alice, who is now living in Bombay. Her father is Sir David Hobson-Jones, the government councillor who suggested me to the Kolhapur Agency.”

  “This really is turning into old home week.” A wide smile spread across his face. “Will you please call me Colin? After all, we studied and played cards together.”

  This was not literally true. It also was a violation of etiquette to be on first names with an Englishman. But the claret was working its subtle magic, shifting time backward, so the man across the table had become a peer. “Very well. Colin.”

  He beamed at her. “What does P. J. stand for?”

  “Perveen is my first name. My middle name is Jamshedji.”

  “Isn’t that a man’s name?”

  “Yes, my father’s. Parsi women always have their father’s first name as their middle name.” Until they married, and the husband’s first name was swapped in. According to the records kept in the Parsi matrimonial court, Perveen’s name was still Perveen Cyrus Sodawalla. She was a woman who was separated but not divorced. This was a twilight status that she downplayed by using her maiden name.

  “I’d suggest cards tonight if there wasn’t so much correspondence for you to see. I’ve got letters from the royal household and more.”

  She was glad to be back on professional footing. “Yes, I’d like to see the letters.”

  “I brought everything in and put it on the small table where I was going through letters earlier. We could have our tea while we read.”

  They carried their teacups back to the spot with low chairs, and Perveen took the leather folio he handed her. A stack of letters lay inside.

  “Most recent are on top,” Colin said, settling into his chair.

  In the glow of a hurricane lamp, Perveen studied the dowager maharani Putlabai’s letter dated May 10, 1921, and written on fine cotton paper with a palace crest. It was in English; Perveen wondered if the lady had written it herself or spoken to a palace scribe, who’d translated.

  Dear Mr. Sandringham,

  Greetings from the Royal House of Satapur. As the seasons change, the weather grows hotter. Rain will be welcome. I trust that you are comfortable in your residence, which must be better suited to the English life than our palace.

  However, the palace is the only home my grandchildren have known. My daughter-in-law has proposed sending the maharaja away to England. This is against my permission. To send him off to live with commoners in a cold place could be ruinous to his health. Danger befell his brother in the forest. I could not bear to lose the maharaja after experiencing the loss of his brother and of his father. My own son was not educated in England. We should not break tradition because she has a silly idea.

  You may also question why the junior maharani would wish to send her son away. I know the answer. Since the death of her husband, she has not had a clear thought. Her mood is bad; she has no interest in children. Mostly I am spending time caring for the maharaja and his sister in my quarters while she follows her own pursuits.

  For the love of my grandson and the future of the state, I beg you to stop any plots to tear him fro
m Satapur.

  With best wishes for your health,

  Putlabai

  Maharani of Satapur

  Perveen knew people were sometimes more likely to exaggerate in writing than in spoken language. It was easier to be dramatic. She wondered if the letter truly expressed the dowager maharani’s position or that of the palace officer or prime minister. She picked up the second letter. Dated on May 20, 1921, it was not on official stationery but the type of lined notepaper that students used. The script was neat Marathi.

  My dear Sir:

  I greet you with respect and prayers for the continued strength of Satapur. As mother of the monarch of a princely state, I am seeking assistance.

  My son is now ten years old. In eight years, he will take responsibility for every aspect of Satapur. I seek to send him to Ludgrove School in England. My late husband believed an English education is necessary for a prince to rule wisely. I also believe that to ensure my son’s physical safety, he must attend school in England.

  I am calling on you to assist with inquiries to the school on behalf of His Highness. Certainly there is money in the royal coffers to pay for the education, travel expenses, and any suggested gifts to the school. Please inform me by return letter of your progress. I should like to shift with both my children to a residence in Poona before rainy season becomes intense. This will make it possible for Jiva Rao to sail from Bombay in July to England.

  I trust you will honor this lawful request.

  Mirabai

  Maharani of Satapur

  “Both letters are signed with the title of just ‘maharani.’ Clearly Putlabai doesn’t want to call herself ‘dowager,’ and Mirabai doesn’t want to call herself ‘junior,’” Perveen commented as she considered the letter. “That shows us competition—and they both have presented valid arguments for the boy’s welfare. How difficult this is, because you’ve never met any of the people involved.”

  Colin took a long, appreciative sip of tea. “I have read reports from McLaughlin about Prince Jiva Rao. Apparently he’s got quite an imperious nature, even at his young age. He doesn’t enjoy maths or literature, but he likes drawing pictures of animals.”

  “I heard from Sir David there is also a young princess?”

  “That is Princess Padmabai, who I believe was born in 1914, which should make her seven.” Colin sipped more tea. “I don’t know anything else about her.”

  Because the princess wouldn’t inherit the throne, she must have been of no interest to the Kolhapur Agency. Perveen sighed and pushed back her shoulders, trying to ease their stiffness.

  “Does your body hurt?”

  She was startled, both by his observation and his frank language. “Just a little.”

  “I recall how uncomfortable the gari ride can be.”

  “It was fine. I’m just a bit sleepy.” Perveen was embarrassed that he’d noticed her discomfort. She didn’t want him thinking she wasn’t fit enough for the journey to the palace. “May I take the letters into my room? I want to read just a bit longer.”

  He nodded. “Take the whole dossier. It includes the original agreement made between the government and Maharaja Mohan Rao, who was the ruler two generations ago, and continues through to correspondence from his son, Maharaja Mahendra Rao.”

  Gathering it up, she said, “I find it strange that Maharani Mirabai would think her son could get out of these mountains to sail for England in July. That’s the height of rainy season. Also, I wonder if there’s evidence here of what Maharaja Mahendra Rao wanted for his sons.”

  “I know that he read history at Fergusson College in Poona, but he never explicitly stated he wanted the same for his son.” Colin put down his empty teacup. “In any case, the decision about schooling is yours to make.”

  “It’s not my aim to be the decider.” At his startled expression, she added, “It would be best to bring the two maharanis to an agreement about the prince’s education. Then there’d be no feeling of one person being a winner and the other a loser.”

  He raised his eyebrows. “What about where the boy would like to go?”

  Perveen paused to consider. She could not imagine a situation where a child was allowed to decide on a school. Slowly, she said, “I understand that you were able to choose your field of study. Maybe it’s like that for young people in the West. But not in India—and this boy is just ten years old.”

  “Cultural sensitivity has its place,” he said. “But this boy will be ruling in eight years. I’d like to improve the relationship between the state and the Kolhapur Agency. Why not let him feel we are on his side? According to the contract made between our government and princely states, the British will serve as a prince’s guardian if his father is not living. You are the personification of that guardianship.”

  Perveen mulled over what this meant. “Is the maharani Mirabai guardian to the children who are not heirs to the throne?”

  He shook his head. “Because there is no ruling male, all the palace women and children come under our protection.”

  This shocking piece of information gave her an opening. “If we are responsible for all, we cannot ignore the fact that in these letters, both maharanis have voiced concerns for Prince Jiva Rao’s safety.”

  “The grandmother spoke of worries about his health. The mother said something a little different—”

  “Physical safety,” Perveen said, looking over the letter again. “There have been two deaths of male rulers in the last two years.”

  His eyes narrowed as he looked at her. “Are you hinting at something?”

  “More than hinting. We are getting a message loud and clear that the prince is at risk of losing his life.”

  5

  The Missing Leg

  Once the words were out, she wished she could take them back. Colin’s jaw had stiffened, and she could imagine what he was thinking. She was overdramatic, because she was Indian and because she was a woman. She knew the stereotypes.

  He cleared his throat and said, “That is a strong statement.”

  “I could be wrong,” she said quickly. “I hope so. But both of the women are anxious, and Maharaja Jiva Rao is the last male in the family line. If he were to die, who would take over as ruler?”

  “I’ve been told those decisions aren’t made until the event happens. The government sometimes chooses a very distant relative, or a fine young man of the same caste who is outside the family tree, depending on the age or suitability.”

  “It confounds me that British India has control over who the rulers are in non-British India. Tell me, who’s the most likely candidate in Satapur?” she persisted.

  He shook his head. “I agree it seems like overreach, but right now, the royal succession is not our business. The only matter before us now is the maharaja Jiva Rao’s education.”

  “The maharaja’s well-being,” Perveen corrected in a crisp tone, because she had a sense he was holding something back, “certainly includes safety as well as education. That is the reasonable legal interpretation of the role of the British government in relation to the ward.”

  Instead of answering, Colin rose stiffly and walked from the parlor. Perveen had the sinking feeling she’d overstepped her role. But he returned a moment later carrying another folio.

  “Because you mentioned safety—these papers will give you a better understanding of the palace’s structure. We have a map based on McLaughlin’s observations.”

  Perveen looked with interest at the large, brittle map he unfolded. It was dominated by two structures. Colin explained the one in front was an old palace built in 1704 where the dowager maharani still lived, and across the courtyard garden behind it was a palace built in 1905 where Maharani Mirabai and the children stayed. There were also many outbuildings for servants, kitchen gardens and leisure gardens, storehouses, stables, and even a riding ring.

  “
There are entrances to the compound on the north and south sides,” Colin said, pointing. “North is the one you’ll see when you arrive.”

  After studying the layout, Perveen thought the walled complex seemed impenetrable. “I hope I’ll be admitted. Otherwise all our debating about the prince’s education and safety is for naught.”

  “I hope so, too.” Colin refolded the map gently and put it atop the documents she was taking to her room. “Rama serves breakfast at seven. The palanquin should come by nine. You should be at the palace before noon.”

  “Thank you for arranging that, and for letting me have a look at these papers.”

  “No need to thank me.” He went to the side of the easy chair and picked up his cane. “I hadn’t thought about there being any peril for the young prince. I realize now that I should have.”

  So she hadn’t come off as badly as she’d thought. In a subdued voice, she bade him good night and walked the length of the veranda to her room.

  After she’d locked the bedroom door that opened to the veranda, she washed her face and brushed her teeth using the porcelain bowl on the teak washstand. She studied the map a while longer, trying to commit it to memory. In her experience, it was not good to go into a place without knowing how to leave it. Then she blew out her candle and went to the bed.

  Sleep did not come easily. Despite the mosquito netting, at least one bug whined close by her ear. Was it inside the netting or out? She couldn’t tell. The mosquito buzzed off, returning every so often just to awaken her when she was almost asleep. There was plenty of other noise to contend with: tree frogs outside and, later on, the hooting of owls. Eventually she drifted off, but she jerked awake at the sound of a scream.

  She sat bolt upright before the scream came again, and she realized it was a cockerel crowing early in the dark.

  It seemed too dark to be morning. She used the matches left on the night table to light the candle. According to her French wristwatch, it was only five o’clock. Over the next ten minutes, as if prodded by the lord of chickens, the bulbuls and cuckoos and koel birds in the garden began to chatter. The birdcalls reminded her of Lillian, her pet parrot at home in Bombay. She wondered how Lillian would react to such a wild environment.