Текст книги "The Palace Tiger"

Автор книги: Barbara Cleverly

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Текущая страница: 13 (всего у книги 19 страниц)

He turned his head and presented his profile but also the war-damaged left side of his face. ‘Perhaps only half the truth, Your Highness. I have it on good authority that I bear more than a passing resemblance to the famous Yashastilak.’

‘I had observed your wound,’ came the calm reply. ‘And it is to be honoured. It is a sign of courage and hurt taken face to the enemy.’

A bursting shell knows no compass direction but if she wanted to believe he’d received a sabre-cut in hand-tohand fighting, he’d happily go along with that. He raised his chin, narrowed his eyes and tried to look at once noble and fierce.

More gurgles from behind the screen.

‘Yes! I see it now. Definitely Yashastilak!

‘But you must be wondering why I have asked you to come and talk to me, Sandilands? Of course, it is always a pleasure to meet an attractive young man and I wish we could converse in more auspicious circumstances.’ Her voice had taken on a businesslike tone. Clever Zafira, Joe noticed, was managing to convey this in his rapid translation.

‘My son, Bishan,’ went on the princess, ‘should even now be preparing to take his place on the gaddi but that will never be. They tell me his death was an accident but I do not believe this. My purdah prevents me from finding out the truth. In the zenana we hear only what the outside world chooses to tell us. I hear from Edgar who has long been my friend that you go after the truth like a hound. When you have found it I would like you to come again and whisper the name of my son’s killer. You will be well rewarded.’

What could Joe do but politely commiserate with the grieving princess and promise that he would tell her the truth which she deserved to know when he was in a position to reveal it?

‘But there is one matter you could clear up for me,’ he said hesitantly. ‘I don’t wish to intrude on family grief but it would be useful to my enquiries to know more precisely what were Bishan’s immediate family circumstances. Was he married? Did he have any children? I have only just arrived in Ranipur and things that are common knowledge to others are not yet known to me.’

Her voice became cooler but she answered swiftly enough. ‘He was married. His wife is about the place somewhere in the zenana. They were married when they were children as is the custom. My daughter-in-law is a princess from a southern state. And, no, Bishan was not blessed with children. My daughters between them have many children but we were still waiting for Bishan’s good fortune . . .’ Her voice trailed away and Joe sensed that his question had disconcerted her.

‘But your thoughts, Sandilands, follow mine down a well-trodden track. If Bishan had had several sons, my husband would not have been reduced to the disastrous choice he has had to make in the matter of his successor. I hold Bishan’s wife, dull little mouse that she is, much to blame. If she had compelled his attention as I continually urged . . .’ Regret and rage cut off her words.

It seemed the right moment to take his leave and Joe extricated himself as smoothly as he could, blindly following Zafira’s swaying hips and clapping hands through the corridors. As he plodded on he felt a weight of sorrow for the disregarded mouse and wondered to what dark corner of the zenana she had fled to hide her shame and to escape the scorn and anger of her mother-in-law.

Chapter Eighteen

Predictably, the lowering features of Edgar Troop greeted Joe as he emerged from the zenana.

‘There you are, Sandilands! And here I am, you see, on sheepdogging duty,’ he said with an awkward laugh. ‘After the day you’ve had, Joe, I expect it will be nothing but good news to hear you can stand down now.’

Well, this was a surprise! Insightful sympathy was not a trait Joe easily ascribed to Edgar.

‘Not that, officially, you were ever on duty, of course. I don’t lose sight of that,’ he murmured. ‘We’ve arranged to have a portable meal served in Colin’s quarters – just the three of us – and we can spend the evening planning the tiger hunt. Colin got down here a few days before us and he’s been able to do a bit of reconnoitring. He’ll fill us in on his plan, assign duties, check the armament . . .’

Joe smiled to see Edgar’s heavy features suffused with the joy of anticipation. This was his world: an evening spent in unbuttoned but purposeful ease with like-minded men, competent and keen. The barracks not the brothel, after all, appeared to be his natural habitat.

‘Did you manage to have much talk with First Her Highness?’ Edgar asked casually when they had distanced themselves from the zenana.

‘Incredibly, it was more in the nature of a mild flirtation,’ said Joe.

Edgar scowled. ‘She likes her distractions. It entertains her to make a fool of gullible young Englishmen. Never underestimate her. You can’t see her in the shadows behind that screen but it’s always strategically placed with you a little way away sweating it out in the sunshine. She sees you all right! Every shifting expression!’

‘Yes,’ said Joe. ‘I’d worked that one out! Thinking of introducing a similar technique to the CID when I get back. We too find it useful to catch the shifty expressions.’

‘What did she want with you? Apart from the chance to view your manly features?’

‘What everyone wants: find out who killed her son and whisper the killer’s name to her.’

‘And did you turn up anything interesting?’

‘I found that Bishan was a most unsatisfactory first son. He was a neglectful husband and produced no children.’

‘I could have told you that! In fact, I rather think I did. Out of his brains with something or other most of the time. Rumoured to have been interested in boys but I don’t think there was any evidence. Neutered tom, I’d have said.’

Joe was very prepared to take Edgar’s estimation of sexual orientation as professional and reliable.

‘No loss!’ Edgar added, echoing Sir George. ‘His mother mourns him but no one else.’

‘A different character from his brother, Prithvi?’

‘Well, remember they were half brothers. And yes, Prithvi was a much more likeable fellow. Got on much better with his father. Was trusted by him, you’d say. Good-looking, charming, bit of a drinker but he got that under control. Playboy. Madeleine wasn’t the first girl he got involved with but she was certainly the last. It was obvious to all that he was head over ears in love with her . . . But in all other ways he was a bright chap. You’d have liked him.’

Emerging from the palace buildings, Edgar stopped and pointed ahead. ‘But forget all that for the evening. There’s Colin’s bungalow – over there, half a mile away at the north end of the Long Pond. Do you see it?’

They followed a hard-beaten lakeside path, glad of the shade of fringing willows and the cooler air rising from the water. The sun had sunk behind a ridge of the Aravallis, turning the sky into an upturned copper bowl reflecting itself in the waters of the lake. A few birds, moorhens, he judged from their movements, were sculling about on the burnished surface but all was otherwise silent. Two grey, hunch-shouldered herons stood poised at the fringe, their frozen silhouettes emphasizing the deep stillness. It would be an hour or two before the animals would gather in twitching unease, making a fragile truce when they came down to drink as night fell. Joe noticed a small boat on the lake making for the shore. An Indian was rowing but Joe could not identify the other figure in the stern.

Following his gaze, Edgar commented, ‘Third Her Highness. She’s a keen fisherman. All-round sportsman in fact. She’ll be an admirable regent for young Bahadur. Set him a good example and perhaps a challenge! I’d like to see her weaning the lad away from the influence of that nanny of his. Too much store set by subordinate clauses, Bunsen burners and Plato’s views of the universe. What the lad needs is some experience of real life!’

The bungalow was built to a blueprint of the civilian accommodation designed by Edwin Lutyens. Practical, constructed to catch every air current that could be caught and, best of all, predictable. After nine months in India, Joe could have found his way around it blindfold. Colin’s welcome was warm and brisk. Without preamble he led them to a table on the verandah overlooking the lake. It was laid with sheets of paper, pencils and bottles of mineral water chilling in silver ice buckets and they settled to something very like a military briefing.

‘I’ve only had four days to chase after our tiger, a week would have been better, but at the rate at which the creature is killing villagers, I don’t feel inclined to wait any longer than necessary. Two or three are being killed each day or having narrow escapes. It was difficult to get any of the local people to accompany me, armed though I was with the latest Lee-Enfield. They’re scared stiff and hiding for most of the day.’

‘Why so many casualties?’ Joe asked. ‘I know nothing of tigers, of course, but isn’t that a high strike rate?’

Colin looked down at the table and said thoughtfully, ‘A tiger needs a given amount of flesh per day to sustain life . . . Thirty pounds or so. His normal kill: chital, sambur, pig, buffalo, he can sit over for two or three days. To be blunt – there’s not a great deal of flesh on some of these villagers.’

‘Yes, of course,’ said Joe hastily, feeling rather foolish.

Colin sensed his embarrassment and added, ‘Claude asked the same question.’

‘Claude? Will he be of the party? Funny, I hadn’t expected him to be the slightest bit interested in tiger hunting.’

‘He isn’t. His interest lies in looking over my shoulder to make certain I’ve taken all precautions to ensure the safety of his protégé – Bahadur. As you can imagine – Claude is very involved with the lad’s continued good health! He came along with me for two of the days. Sensible chap, gets things done. We managed to buy up a few goats and stake them out. The tiger took the bait and we were able to follow the blood trail and the spoor. I think, in the end, Claude was quite intrigued by the process!’

‘Is that when tigers hunt? In the daytime?’ asked Joe.

‘Yes, daylight hours. Leopards attack at night.’

‘What sort of area are we looking at?’ said Edgar, examining a sketch Colin passed to them.

‘Well, you know that tigers are territorial?’ Joe sensed that Colin was setting out the problem in terms that he, a newcomer to the jangal, could understand. ‘Each one establishes supremacy in a particular area, kills within it and defends it from other tigers. This one has three villages on its shopping list. Here, look.’ He drew a line around the outer edge of his map and pointed out the three settlements inside the line. ‘Oh, by the way, not tiger. It’s a tigress. I’ve heard accounts from some of the people who’ve sighted it and I’ve seen its tracks. It’s a big female. Possibly as much as ten feet over curves. If she’s got cubs hidden away somewhere she will be very bad-tempered.’

‘But why does a tiger take to eating people?’ Joe asked. ‘They don’t do that naturally, do they?’

‘No, the tiger’s a gent. He’ll go out of his way – but not far out of his way (he’s proud, too) – to avoid humans. But sometimes the rules of nature break down. As in this case. The tracks I found near Dilakot show she’s been wounded in some way. The front right paw is turned in, practically unusable. Whatever happened to our beast, it produced a creature unable any longer to run at and attack its usual prey. Not got the speed and strength any more. To survive, she turns to easier, slower-moving creatures unable to defend themselves. We think she started out as a cattle-lifter then, as her debility increased, she took to killing men, women and children.

‘There have been no reports of hunters wounding and leaving a tiger to its own devices in the forest which is the sequence that usually creates a man-eater so we must assume that she got her wound in a fight, or a trap. Oh, there is a complicating factor: about a fortnight ago, a village woman threw a sickle at it – it had just killed her daughter – and she’s sure she hit it in the eye. So what we have is a half blind, limping tigress. Sounds a piece of cake, doesn’t it? But it’s these wounds that are making her desperate and cunning and making her seek out ever easier targets.’ He paused. ‘Five children were killed last week. The villagers are terrified. But more than terrified, they are grief-stricken and angry. The men have agreed to turn out and act as beaters when the royal hunt at last arrives with all its pomp and circumstance to help them.’

Joe caught a note of disapproval in his voice. ‘Aren’t they doing the right thing, Colin?’

‘Let’s say I’d do it another way! I’d go in quietly with Edgar – wouldn’t even take you, Joe! – and a handful of picked bearers, take our time and finish the job cleanly. The most efficient way to get a tiger is to simply locate his kill – not difficult if you’ve provided the goat or the young buffalo yourself – follow the drag and sit over it until he comes back for the rest the next day. It doesn’t always go according to plan – tigers are clever and their senses are about ten times more acute than ours. You start out in the forest with the assumption that they are tracking you and they are much more skilful at it.’

‘Sounds terrifying!’ said Joe, unable to restrain a shudder.

‘It can be. And I’ll tell you the most frightening thing – when you’ve gone alone into the forest after a man-eater, your senses are telling you he’s close and you’re following his tracks . . . you wind around between rocks and suddenly you realize you’ve been led in a circle because there, in front of you, are your own prints. And – superimposed on the top of your prints are the tiger’s own. He’s behind you.’

‘I think I’d prefer the maharaja’s way,’ said Joe. ‘A hundred elephants and a division of heavily armed sportsmen.’

Colin grimaced. ‘It goes against the grain to attempt what should be a surgical operation with all the panoply of a staged royal hunt. They’ve prepared the elephants and sent them off into the forest already. All the gear and supplies went with them. Your gun case is even now being lovingly put into your tent, Joe! Along with the Fortnum & Mason’s hamper. We’re to go out by motor car or horse – take your pick – and meet up with the elephants a mile or two from what I think must be the tiger’s hiding place.’

‘We’re to camp there?’ Joe asked. ‘Out in the jungle?’

Colin laughed. ‘Edgar, didn’t you tell me this chap had survived four years on the front? After a damp dug-out in the Flanders mud, Joe, I think you’ll find you have nothing to complain of! Your own tent, cooks and stewards on hand and no one shooting at you. They’re well used to putting on shows like this. The Viceroy himself sometimes spends a week here in March between his stints in Delhi and Simla.’

He began to draw on the map. ‘Now, look, this here’s a sort of funnel, wide end to the west.’

‘A nullah?’ offered Joe.

‘Right. It’s a narrow valley within striking distance of all three villages. There’s a stream from a spring in the hillside running down the middle and it widens out as you go . . . to about a hundred and fifty yards. Steep banks to north and south. It’s about a mile from beginning to end and thickly screened by tall grasses on either side. Elephant grass – reaching twelve feet in some places. This tiger has chosen well. Beyond the grass there are trees. A fringe of large trees. Now at this narrow eastern end, twenty yards across, no more, there’s a sort of rocky ledge with an overhang right by a water-hole and that’s where I’m guessing the tiger has its den. Tigers don’t relish the heat – they like to cool off with a good wallow, like anyone else. And water’s essential to them – I’ve known tigers drag their kill for miles to take a drink before settling down to eat. I began to follow the tracks of this one up the valley but had to leave off because the light was going but I’ll bet my boots that’s where she is. It’s within earshot of the villages. She can hear when the buffalo are being led out, she can hear the women chattering to each other in the fields, she can hear the children shouting.’

‘Colin, I don’t think elephants crashing about in this small area are going to be much of a help,’ Edgar said.

‘No, they’re not. I thought we’d join them in camp, admire their decorations, go for a ride to impress Joe, take a few photographs of him lording it in the howdah for his mates back home. Then we’ll tether them and go in on foot.’

He pointed to the trees he’d drawn along the sides of the valley. ‘I’ve had some machans fixed in the trees. That’s a wooden shooting platform, Joe. Well above tiger-leaping height and giving good cover. Beaters will be here . . . here . . . and here . . . covering both sides of the valley and the narrow end. They’ll start well away from the guns and will close in slowly, making a hideous racket!’

He gave each of them a meaning look and went on, ‘I’m sure you both appreciate that this outing has its political aspect and we have to accommodate that, so the placing of the participants is somewhat sensitive. I’ve put Bahadur in the first tree over here nearest to the den so that the new heir can have the first shot when the tigress, disturbed by the noise, starts to escape down the nullah. I’ve put Shubhada on the same machan. She’s a good shot and very cool-headed. He won’t feel he’s being patronized and protected if he’s sharing with a woman but she will be quietly looking out for his safety, you can be sure.’

‘Is that entirely safe?’ Edgar asked.

Colin grunted. ‘Nothing’s ever guaranteed in a tiger hunt but I was firmly told by Udai no less that it would be a very good idea if Bahadur were to come back from the outing with his first tiger skin. And bagging this particular one will go down very well with the people of course. Be an auspicious start to the reign and all that. Ajit Singh was not best pleased either and insisted on sharing the platform with the heir but he’s been overruled. I suspect by Bahadur himself. Anyway, I’ve put Ajit on the machan opposite . . . here. It’s about a hundred yards away across the nullah.’

‘And who’s this here on the tree to the left of Bahadur?’ Edgar asked.

‘That’s Claude – I have checked all this out with the Resident, by the way. He’s a good shot, they say, but not experienced with tiger. And opposite Claude – and you’ll notice the machans are all a little splayed so no one is shooting directly at anyone else (don’t want any nasty accidents) – I’ve put you, Edgar.’

‘So this last one at the end of the nullah on the south side is my tree?’ said Joe.

‘Yes,’ said Colin, pencilling in a J. ‘Look on yourself as backstop. If the five other guns fail you’ll have to uphold the honour of the Met. But I’m not expecting it to get past Bahadur. Just to the left of his machan, you see . . .’ He drew in a dotted line running from the stream bed to the south side of the nullah. ‘. . . is a game track. It joins the bank where a landslide has fetched down enough rubble to make a neat little exit out of the valley. I’m betting our tiger will try to sneak out of the valley by the nearest path the moment the balloon goes up. Either way, Bahadur will get a good shot at it.’

‘And where will you be, Colin? We seem to have run out of trees.’

‘Oh, here, there and everywhere. I’ll be on foot, coordinating the beaters. Plugging any gaps . . . nervously checking she doesn’t surprise us all by doubling back and breaking through the cordon, with dire results . . . that sort of thing.’

He smiled encouragingly at Joe whose concern was beginning to show. ‘I’m not going to say “Don’t worry” – that would always be the last piece of advice I’d give! Worry like hell! A desperate and clever tiger on the loose, six guns pointing God knows where and half a village out, armed with sticks and old swords . . . I can tell you, Joe, it’s a nightmare! All I can say is – I’ve never yet had a fatality or an accident, however slight, on one of my shoots. That’s as far as I can go with a guarantee, I’m afraid.’

‘That’s good enough for me,’ said Joe, instinctively trusting the old hunter and liking his honesty. ‘And, who knows? I might surprise you all! There might be a head labelled “Sandiland’s Tiger” in the trophy room or wherever they keep them before the week’s out.’

‘There’s a whole wall of them in the silah-khana. Show him the armoury, Edgar, on your way back through the palace. Might encourage him. Now, a nightcap before you go? I’m planning an early start tomorrow morning, by the way. In the cars, wheels turning by seven o’clock. I expect the ruler will be very relieved to see the back of us for a few days. It’s been difficult for him, this last bit. And the thing he needs least at the moment is a contingent of Europeans cluttering up the palace.’

‘Send them off into the moffussil!’ said Edgar. ‘And the fewer who return, the better!’

‘Something like that,’ said Colin uncertainly.

It had been a good evening, Joe thought. He had said little, content to be entertained by the two old friends who yarned the hours away retelling well-known stories for Joe’s benefit, but at last he set off back along the dark lakeside path, Edgar steering his way by the light of an enormous amber moon and the small, twinkling lights of the houses along the water’s edge. Joe paused, holding his breath to see the magical white lamplit outline of Shubhada’s pavilion reflected in the still water. Forest creatures were about and he heard their furtive movements, their occasional throaty warnings. He stood, entranced, listening to the unexpected song of a night bird, a liquid golden stream of sound from the branches overhead.

‘Himalayan song-thrush,’ said Edgar, prosaically. ‘Always the first to say good morning and the last to say goodnight. Now come on, Joe, step out! If you want to take a look at the armoury before you turn in.’

Edgar threw open the door of the armoury and switched on the lights with the confidence of one who had the undisputed entrée and, with a wide gesture, invited Joe to inspect the room’s contents. It seemed to him to be half trophy room, half museum of Rajput militaria from a bygone age. He commented firstly on the rows of tiger and leopard heads since this seemed to be expected of him. Rank upon rank and, apart from a small marker identifying the hunter and the date of the kill, indistinguishable one from the other, they glowered down at him. All snarled defiantly, all had bright glass eyes which reflected back the light bulbs from their black pupils, following him around the room in a disconcerting way.

The centre of the room was occupied by the stuffed body of a superb tiger, its coat, in spite of its experiences at the hands of the hunter and the taxidermist, deep and thick, shining with an illusion of health. Joe could not hold himself back from running a hand along the sleek pelt, wondering at the massive size of the animal.

‘Winter coat, that’s why it’s so thick,’ said Edgar. ‘Udai shot it himself a couple of years ago. His last tiger. Big one – ten foot six, nose to tail.’

‘I can see why Colin prefers to go hunting with a camera,’ said Joe to annoy Edgar. ‘It’s against nature to turn a gun on such a fine creature for no good reason.’

Edgar looked at him, disbelieving. ‘Hunting’s a good reason,’ he commented briefly. ‘Come and look at the weaponry. Imagine having to face one of these without the advantage of a big-game rifle and a hundred yards between you. Up close, staring it in the eye, thirty stone of powerful muscle launching itself at you, feeling its breath on your face and nothing more than one of these in your hand!’ He pointed out the rows of lances lined up along a wall. To Joe they looked fearsome enough. And the displays of vicious curved talwars, longswords and pig-sticking spears made him shudder.

Edgar gave a sly grin. ‘Not your scene exactly, is it, Joe? All right. I’ll let you off the other exhibits!’ He waved a hand at a series of large glass cases. ‘Torture instruments, bits of gladiatorial gear. All in use until a few years ago, I’m told. And all very interesting. Rather far-sighted of Udai to preserve it, you’d say. Would have been all too easy to dispose of it in the name of modernity but that’s Rajputs for you – very conscious of their past and proud of it.’

They turned the lights off and left. Joe shuddered, his imagination telling him that this was not a room in which he would have enjoyed finding himself alone after dark. But his tour was not yet over. Remorselessly, Edgar opened the door of the next room along the passageway. ‘Here you are, you see, in complete contrast – could you have anything more up to the minute than this?’

‘This’ was a lavishly decorated shrine to the game of snooker. In the centre of the room, standing like a huge altar, a snooker table (though the word was inadequate for such a structure) gleamed in gold-embossed mahogany. In an echo of the ranks of lances next door, snooker cues were lined up against the walls in racks and scoreboards were fastened to leather-lined panels.

‘Most impressive,’ said Joe. ‘We must have a game sometime. And I’ll wear Sir George’s jacket in deference to the sumptuous surroundings. Anything less sartorially sensational would smack of disrespect!’

‘Do you have to talk like a music hall MC?’ grumbled Edgar.

‘It must be all this mahogany and red plush,’ Joe muttered.

‘Well, thanks, Edgar, for the tour,’ said Joe as they arrived in front of his suite. ‘Now go and get an early night, old man. Remember we have a brisk start in the morning.’

With a sigh of relief he went into his room, loosening his tie, kicking off his shoes, hurling his jacket in the direction of the wardrobe and making for the bathroom. He was glad he’d had the forethought to tell his valet to stand down; he didn’t feel up to an appraisal by Govind’s bland but all-seeing eye. There were many things he was unable to come by in India and solitude was one of them. With pleasure he ran his own bath and wallowed in the water, then stood naked and dripping wet on the marble floor for several minutes until he could imagine himself cool again before drying off.

There was a light tap on the door. Joe sighed and tucked a towel round his waist. He waited, expecting Govind to come in to check he had all he needed. The tap was repeated. Cursing to himself he went to the door and opened it. There was a rush of scented air as Madeleine ducked under his arm and dashed into the centre of the room. She looked excited and determined and she was holding out a brown foolscap envelope for him to see. Joe groaned.

‘Got it! Didn’t I tell you I’d do it! But you weren’t really listening, were you, Joe?’

‘Good Lord, Madeleine! What have you got there? Your “ticket out of here”, I think you said . . . you see, I was listening! Is that it? I want you to tell me quickly and then buzz off, will you? You’ve already ruined my reputation irreparably!’

Madeleine rolled her eyes. ‘Your reputation! Joe, you squeal louder than a virgin in the Black Sox dressing room! No one saw me come. I was very careful. And I thought you’d be interested to see what I have here!’

With shining eyes she handed over the envelope. Resentful of his own curiosity, Joe opened it and slid out several printed legal documents. It was a few moments before he could work out what he held in his hand but when the import of the papers hit him he sat down abruptly on the edge of his bed, clutching them in a damp hand.

‘What the hell, Madeleine!’

‘Thought you’d be impressed!’

He leafed through the package silently adding up figures in his head.

‘A million? Have I got that right? A million dollars’ worth of bearer bonds, stock certificates, title deeds . . . All instantly negotiable, I notice. Now . . . the question is – do I want to know how you came by them?’

‘Well, since you ask so prettily, I’ll tell you! The ruler gave them to me this afternoon. I think he’s glad to pay me off and get rid of me.’

‘And what did you offer to do in return?’

‘It’s what I offered not to do that got his attention and triggered his generosity!’ she grinned.

She left Joe riffling in disbelief once more through the documents and poured out two glasses of tonic water from the tray laid ready. She handed one to Joe and sat down by his side. Her triumphant good humour was hard to resist.

‘Let me guess . . . you promised not to reveal what Prithvi had been getting up to in the States, I begin to think most probably with his father’s connivance?’

She looked at him in some surprise. ‘Why . . . yes . . . something very like that. Say – you really can put it together, can’t you?’

‘Let’s start a bit nearer the beginning, shall we? I did wonder exactly what Prithvi was doing in an obscure part of the southern states . . . Texas, was it? . . . when he met you. Now, looking at these, I think I can guess!’

She nodded. ‘He’d been in Florida. Know where that is, Joe?’

‘Vaguely. Carry on.’

‘He’d been sent over to the States as his father’s agent. His financial agent. Things had not been going too well, cash-wise, in Ranipur for years.’ She paused, wondering how far she should confide state secrets, he guessed.

‘I had worked that out,’ he said encouragingly. ‘Years of drought, the mines running out, crippling of the lucrative trade routes, depopulation, over-taxation, enforced contributions to the war in Europe . . . I could go on! The signs are all there to be read by anyone with eyes to see. In an earlier century they would have taken up arms against another state on some pretext or none and simply stolen their treasure but this is no longer an option allowed under the Raj. And the clues that indicate the coffers are bare are the unfinished projects and the calculatedly spectacular pieces of extravagance – hocus-pocus to hide the true state of the princedom.’

‘You’re a hard man to fool, aren’t you?’ she murmured. ‘Yes, you’ve got it figured right. They cashed in their reserves of jewels and Prithvi came over to the States – via Paris, Switzerland and Amsterdam – to invest in the future. They decided that instead of sitting by watching the last reserves be depleted year by year until the treasure house ran dry, they’d invest and get a return on their money. And, Joe, it’s working! These guys own Florida!’