Текст книги "The Palace Tiger"

Автор книги: Barbara Cleverly

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 17 (всего у книги 19 страниц)

Joe was looking at twin objects. Two huge paws of a tiger had been mounted on short thick handles. Joe shuddered. ‘What the hell are they for, Edgar?’

‘Well, they’re not back-scratchers. They’re for killing. What else? They were used as weapons in gladiatorial combats. There’s a rather lurid account by a Western traveller, top-brass, staying as the guest of a maharaja who staged some fights for his entertainment, boxing, wrestling and so on. For the grand finale, a couple of stout chaps appeared armed with these things and started hacking chunks out of each other. The guest was so sickened by the performance, especially when he was hit in the face by a gobbet of flying flesh, that he called a halt.’

Joe was not deceived by Edgar’s insensitive delivery. He thought it masked a horror he would not have been capable of articulating. He took one of the weapons from its place and turned it over. They looked at it carefully. ‘Good Lord – it’s the size of a dessert plate but nothing untoward there, I think,’ said Joe. ‘Seems to have all its claws. Try the other one.’

‘Ah. One claw missing.’

‘We’ve got to get this to the doctor. He’s got a microscope in his room, perhaps he could compare these claws with the one we found in Bahadur . . . yes, I kept it. And who knows what he might find traces of, unless it’s been thoroughly cleaned and there hasn’t been a great deal of time for that, I’d say. But how in hell do you transport something like this to the hunt? And back? Without someone noticing. Servants packing and unpacking . . .’

‘Same way we’re going to take it out of here,’ said Edgar with a grin. ‘See that gun case over there? Empty it, will you, and we’ll stuff it in there. Nobody looks twice at anyone carrying sporting equipment about in this place!’

As they passed the ranks of ceremonial daggers, jewelled hilts twinkling, they both stopped, turned and looked.

‘Something here for every taste and purpose,’ said Edgar. ‘From castrating an elephant to paring your toenails. Take your pick. What about this?’ he said, pointing to an evil-looking Afghani punch dagger. ‘Easy to hide about the person.’

‘No, too broad in the blade,’ said Joe, looking carefully at it, ‘and the blade’s triangular. Wouldn’t match the wound profile. But, yes! Look! Over there.’

Six slender knives with plain undecorated steel hilts were mounted in a row.

‘Never noticed those before,’ said Edgar. ‘No winking jewels set in the hilts to catch the eye, I suppose. Medieval? European, would you say?’

Joe sighed. ‘This is where I click my finger and summon up a sergeant who arranges for the whole lot to be wrapped in a handkerchief and taken away to the laboratory. And an hour later they ring me on the telephone and say suspect item number five has traces of human blood recently deposited and a complete set of fingerprints on the hilt. But – for now, for here . . . let’s just note, shall we, that number two from the right is shinier than the rest so it’s probably been recently cleaned,’ muttered Joe. ‘Pop it in the box, would you, Edgar?’

They walked on nonchalantly through the palace, Edgar carrying the gun case, until they reached the rooms of Sir Hector Munro. He was supervising the unpacking of his effects but sent his servant away immediately he caught the expression on the faces of his two callers. It was enough to open the case and show him the contents. With an intake of breath and a shudder of revulsion, he understood what he was looking at and what was required of him. He carried the weapons to a bench, checked and adjusted his microscope and set to work.

‘I hardly need to inspect the dagger,’ he said. ‘An exact match with the wound, I’d say. Been cleaned and polished. Can’t say I can see a trace of anything but smears of Brasso on it.’

Tweezers and swabs took samples from the paw and these went under the microscope. Joe offered the claw he had preserved wrapped in a handkerchief and they set to wait for Sir Hector’s findings. Several times he called them over to look down the eyepiece and verify a conclusion and finally he said, ‘That was well done, both of you! However did you manage to come up with this? I’d never seen or even heard of such a thing. But it’s certainly the tool that was used in the killing of the Yuvaraj. The missing claw is a match for colour and general state of wear.

‘The object has obviously been preserved for many years and been put to active, er, martial use which has resulted in the claws being less solidly attached than those of a live tiger. Not surprising that one of them worked loose and became embedded in the wound.’ He paused for a moment. ‘Of course, it could have been deliberately extracted from the foot and placed in the wound as a clinching factor. You yourself referred to it as a “calling card”, I think, Joe.’

‘Over-egging the pudding, wouldn’t you say?’

‘I would. Colin certainly would. Any expert would. You did – with hindsight and a hefty nudge. I think our perpetrator wasn’t expecting to have a scientific searchlight shone on his handiwork. Just as interestingly, the matter I’ve found between the claws and on the pads is flesh and hair and, I’d say, not animal but human. And it’s not been there all that long. I wouldn’t say it’s been left over from the last combat even if that were last week which it wasn’t. It’s relatively fresh. Someone’s given the thing a good brush or comb down, a thorough job, and one which would deceive the human eye – unaided. You couldn’t identify it without a microscope.

‘I say – would you like to take that thing away with you?’ he finished, distaste in his tone.

The baghnakh had safely been stowed away in the gun case when a servant appeared at the door. Trembling and anxious, he delivered his message. The doctor’s presence was urgently required at the ruler’s suite. The Maharaja Udai Singh was dying. He wanted to see also the two sahibs, Troop and Sandilands.

Chapter Twenty-Four

They were escorted with urgency through the New Palace to a north-facing wing projecting out into parkland, the lake a distant gleam between crowding trees. Two rows of the Royal Guard were lined up along the corridor leading to the prince’s apartment, and although the men made not the slightest movement Joe passed between them with a shudder.

As they arrived, the carved sandalwood doors opened and an Indian woman came out. A young girl dressed in blood-red Rajputana silks, her black hair was parted in the centre and a jewelled ornament hung very precisely in the centre of her forehead. Her arms were covered in ivory bangles from shoulder to elbow and gold anklets gleamed as she walked. Head erect, a smile on her face, she came on towards them. She glowed. She pushed ahead of her an almost palpable bow-wave of triumph.

Joe, Edgar and the doctor stood aside, gazing.

‘Shubhada?’ Edgar finally managed to ask.

Her glance flicked from one to the other. They were hardly worth her attention; she did not attempt to greet them.

An anger beginning quietly to burn in him pushed Joe to stand in front of her, blocking her path. Two of the guards took a step forward, hands on sword hilts. At a gesture from Shubhada they stood back. She waited for him to move aside, tapping her foot, the chink of anklets expressing her irritation. Her eyes remained fixed on the top button of his jacket.

His voice when he spoke was so soft she had to lean slightly towards him to hear what he said.

‘Shah mat?’

‘Shah mat. Though I think I prefer the English saying: “The King is dead. Long live the King.” She smiled. She seemed amused. ‘It always pays to look to the future, Commander.’

‘Perhaps that is all one can do when the past is full of dishonour and death . . . and guilt!’

She was unable to meet his scorching gaze and stood, motionless, until he stepped aside and released her to flow on down the corridor.

‘Now what the hell was that all about?’ muttered Edgar.

The doctor at that moment was ushered into the staterooms and Edgar and Joe were left to wait outside in the courtyard.

‘And why is Third Her Highness got up in that outfit, do you suppose?’ he persisted, with an anxious look at the guards to ascertain they were out of earshot. ‘Are you going to tell me what on earth was the meaning of all that gibberish? Whatever you said, it certainly took the wind out of her sails!’

‘An accusation of murder usually has that effect,’ said Joe.

‘Murder? Shubhada?’ Edgar whispered, disbelieving. ‘Are you barmy? Who’s she supposed to have murdered? Not . . .?’

‘Yes. It sickens me to say it but yes. Bahadur.’

‘Then you are barmy! She of all people needed the boy alive, you idiot! She was going to be regent – years of power ahead of her to establish herself. Who knows,’ his voice reached a new depth, unwilling to hear himself pointing a finger at Udai’s wife, ‘perhaps she had it in mind to milk the treasury? She’s got expensive tastes. It has occurred to me that she mightn’t have balked at helping herself to the goodies.’

Joe nodded. ‘And those aren’t the only goodies she was planning to help herself to, if I’ve got it right.’

Edgar considered. ‘You’ve lost me, old chap.’

‘The Resident.’

‘Don’t follow. Claude’s the other key-holder, so to speak. Are you saying she was planning on suborning her coregent?’

‘Not suborning. Seducing, more like.’

Edgar whistled under his breath. ‘You can’t mean . . .’

‘Yes. She’s in love with him. If they haven’t already embarked on a liaison, it’s certainly on the cards. Part of the lady’s look towards the future.’

‘Absolute nonsense!’ Edgar tried to splutter quietly. ‘Total fantasy! Why, I’d have sworn she doesn’t even like him . . . Good God, man! You’ve got me gossiping like you . . . just like two old maids at a Simla tea-party! What possible evidence do you have for such a scurrilous suggestion?’

Joe sighed. ‘None you would accept, Edgar. A boat on a lake . . . a trace of perfume in the air . . . what indeed?’ He shook his head. ‘It does sound mad but, believe me, I’d place no weight on mere glancing suspicions if they weren’t themselves given strength by the circumstances of Bahadur’s death. Listen! Claude works (till all hours according to the memsahib) in a bungalow down by the lake.’

Edgar nodded.

‘A short way along the shore is Shubhada’s secluded pavilion, staffed by her discreet and devoted servants. She has a boat. We actually saw her being ferried about on the lake when we visited Colin. Where had she been?’

‘Fishing of course!’ said Edgar. ‘We all understand she’s a keen fisherman but you’re saying it’s not just lake trout she’s got her hooks into?’

‘No proof at all – I’m just asking you to follow a trail and see where it leads. I’m talking about possibilities. I don’t know how this intrigue – let’s call it that, shall we? – started or who started it.’

‘Well, a royal Indian female would not be Claude’s natural prey, no matter how hungry, if you understand me. Way beyond his reach. Inviolate!’

‘Yes, I would agree with that,’ said Joe, ‘were it not for the fact that this would not be the first, nor the hundredth, not even the thousandth love affair between an Indian and a European. And Cupid’s been known to scatter his darts a little carelessly sometimes. But I take your point. I don’t think Claude would have set out to ensnare Shubhada. Charm, perhaps, but not ensnare. It was most probably started on Shubhada’s initiative or it was a simultaneous coup de foudre – the words do feature in her vocabulary. She grew up in the West – must have absorbed the usual romantic notions. May even have read Monthly Moonshine Magazine under the covers in her Brighton dormitory. And, let’s admit it, shall we – though I’m sure it annoys us both – Claude’s an attractive chap.’

Edgar’s lip curled in distaste but Joe persisted. ‘No, come on! I can imagine a girl being struck by a thunderbolt at the sight of him. Anyway – let’s say they start on an after-hours association . . . Lois gets fretful. “Do you have to work so late, Claude? And what’s that strange smell?” Can you imagine?’

Joe told Edgar about the French perfume. ‘A very memorable scent,’ he concluded.

Edgar was intrigued. ‘So – he gives a bottle of the same stuff to his wife, and whichever girl he’s been necking – as Stuart would say – he comes up smelling of Shalimar, so that’s all right!’ said Edgar. ‘Hah! There’s chaps in Simla would thank you for the tip! And with the maharaja dead and the pair of them made co-regents they can get their hands on power, money and each other! Very well. All that I can imagine – because I have a lively imagination – but what I can’t accept is that, on the brink of this good fortune, Shubhada would throw everything away by killing Bahadur. Without him she has nothing.’

He fell silent and then said quietly, ‘And there’s the rub. You can’t get around or past that, can you, Joe?’

‘You’re right, Edgar. There’s something missing . . . something I haven’t seen. A piece of this jigsaw’s fallen on the floor and no one’s noticed. But it doesn’t stop us building up the rest of the picture.’

Doggedly, he went on, ‘She didn’t do it alone, you know.’

‘Claude? I had wondered.’

‘I think he did the killing. As soon as everyone was installed on their machan I think Claude came down to the thicket. Shubhada found a way of getting Bahadur to climb down. May even have told him to take the opportunity of having a last pee in a nanny-ish sort of way. While she takes the baghnakh out of her gun case – it didn’t travel with the other luggage, she kept it with her all the time – and throws it down, Bahadur goes or is dragged into the thicket. He has time to cry out once and attempts to draw his revolver. No good against tiger but it would have stopped Claude in his tracks if only he’d been faster. Claude kills him. A quick stab and then he rakes over the small exit wound with the claws.’

Joe hesitated for a moment, ordering his thoughts. ‘And this is what chills the blood, Edgar – he took the precaution of pressing the device into the ground a few times to create spoor in case anyone should be looking, so when Hector examined the wound . . .’ Joe’s voice trailed away.

‘He found bits of sand and grass? Nothing if not thorough, the Resident.’

‘As you say. Then the baghnakh and the knife disappear back into the gun case and Claude goes back to his tree. He shoots and misses the tigress to establish that he’s there in position and the hunt progresses. As soon as she hears the all clear, Shubhada starts to whistle and when we come bursting in we see Claude, bloodstained, dishevelled and distraught. And every reason to be.’

‘Distraught yes. But calculatedly so,’ said Edgar. ‘Remember the mad way he went for Ajit? Makes sense now. He was establishing in our minds the assertion that Ajit had been away from his machan or failing to shoot at the vital time. Spreading suspicion of neglect. It would have worked.’

‘It was meticulously worked out,’ said Joe thoughtfully, ‘and yet . . . and yet . . . it could all have gone desperately wrong. How thrilled and surprised they must have been when a second tiger strolled on-stage unexpectedly. Played right into their hands!’

‘I’m surprised Claude didn’t take the easier way out and just shoot his victim,’ said Edgar. ‘Easy enough to fake a shooting accident. Heaven knows – they crop up naturally all the time!’

‘I had noticed that Claude was paying close attention when I was telling Ram about ballistics. I think he even questioned me on the ease with which we could now obtain bullet profiles by simply sending the evidence off to Calcutta for analysis. I can almost feel sorry for him! He’d probably planned an accidental death by stray bullet and then, suddenly finding a smarty-pants police officer was going to be up the next tree, had to change his plans dramatically.’

‘All the same – with the help of Shubhada and her acting abilities they damn nearly carried it off. Would have done if it had been left to you and me, old boy!’ said Edgar. ‘They hurried off before everyone else – with every appearance of bad feeling, did you notice? – to replace the weapon in the armoury having given it a good cleaning the night before. But why? It still leaves me asking – why the hell should they do this?’

‘I’m nearly there. Tell me, Edgar, did you see the joke Colin played on Bahadur to teach him a lesson? The tiger’s paws in the flour outside his tent?’

Edgar smiled. ‘We all saw it. Just the sort of thing the lad appreciated. Would have appreciated. Didn’t seem particularly amused on this occasion.’

‘That’s because his own trap had been discovered and dismantled before it could be sprung. He was disappointed and sulking.’

‘Trap? What trap?’

‘I heard him stirring about in the night. He sent his man off to the supply tent for what appears to have been a sack of flour. When I asked if he was all right – I heard him laughing and checked on him – he said something mysterious about Bahadur the hunter’s trap being sprung and he’d tell me about it in the morning.

‘What he did with the flour was creep about spreading a layer of it outside Claude’s tent. He thought that he’d get up early in the morning and check for spoor.’

‘Good God! He was expecting to find a trail of footprints from someone else’s tent to Claude’s! Shubhada. She was at the end of the row . . . she’d have had to cross the flour to reach his tent – had she been stupid enough to try! Do you suppose Bahadur suspected something was going on before you did?’

‘Yes, I do. He’d spent the last few months living rough about the palace, sleeping here and there, hiding in corners. He was clever and pretty devious himself. He’d learned all about life and intriguing – survival too – from the zenana. I think his mother must have been a bigger influence on the boy than people allow. Perhaps she even marked his card. If anyone could have observed an intrigue and known how to interpret what he saw correctly, he was the most likely. And having guessed – well . . .’

‘Blackmail. Power,’ said Edgar.

‘No wonder he was so full of confidence immediately after he was declared Yuvaraj. Not only was he Prince in Waiting, but he had his prospective co-regents where he wanted them. And I’m sure he made them well aware of it. No waiting involved for Bahadur. I think he told them what he knew and what he intended to do about it if they didn’t toe the line. They made their plans well before the hunting trip. The flourish with the flour was a bit of naughtiness – a practical demonstration of the power he had. Now what would have happened if he’d carried out his threat and told his father what was going on?’

Edgar’s shoulders quivered with exaggerated horror at the question. ‘Rather not think about it, old man! Yes, perhaps they did the only thing they could do. Committing a murder and losing their potential power would have been infinitely preferable to the appalling consequences had he spilled the beans to Udai and been believed.’

‘But there’s still something I can’t get at,’ said Joe.

‘That missing piece? It’ll come. Let’s concentrate on putting what we’ve got on the table into some sort of order.’

An unwelcome thought struck Edgar. ‘And what about the other deaths? Bishan? Prithvi? You’re not suggesting that –’

The door opened and their names were called. Sahibs Troop and Sandilands made their way in to have their last interview with a dying prince.

Already in an agitated state, Edgar hurried forward, his grief obvious, in response to the wide gesture of Udai’s outstretched arm.

‘Edgar, my friend! Time to say goodbye, I think. Not much time – though I must agree with . . . is it Tagore? . . . when he says, “The butterfly counts not months but moments and has time enough.” How trite death makes all such pronouncements sound, even the simple heartfelt ones!’

Elegantly clad in an achkan of white brocade, pearls draping his silken turban, he was lying on a divan, a glass of whisky at his elbow, looking, Joe thought, as bright as a bee, as urbane and welcoming as the hostess at an eighteenth-century literary salon. Voltaire himself must have been greeted in the drawing room of Madame du Deffand with just the same charm, full of subtle flattery. In the place of the small group of musicians gently playing a keening melody, Joe almost looked for the young Mozart at a harpsichord. But the image dissolved at the sight of the symbolic pile of straw by the window and the two Rajput footmen who stood grimly by to place their prince on it when his last minutes came. In a far corner, the old scribe turned from his table to smile and nod.

In attendance stood three courtly figures: Zalim Singh, for once expressionless and unsmiling, Sir Hector and an elderly, distinguished Rajput whom Joe took to be the palace physician.

‘And Sandilands, how good of you to come,’ said Udai. Before Joe could speak, he held up a hand. ‘Please say nothing to me of the disastrous hunt. No one can struggle against Fate though we all try to the last. Indeed, you see me here, still struggling. I have said I would like Bahadur’s ashes to be scattered on the river with mine. We spent little time together in life but we will make the great journey together in death.’

A tear escaped from Edgar’s eye and embarked on the hazardous journey down the rough terrain of his cheek.

‘My men of medicine you see . . .’ He indicated the two still forms standing at the head of the divan. ‘. . . have administered the hiranya garbha and already I begin to feel its effect.’ He turned to Sir Hector. ‘Now, I know you’re interested, Hector, so I’ll tell you – I feel the predicted inner warmth, my pain has reduced by, oh – eighty per cent – my vision has cleared and my thoughts are sharp. Quite remarkable! But then – I must try not to confuse the physical effects of the pill with the mentally uplifting effects of my happiness.’

Joe and Edgar looked at each other, fearful for the ruler’s sanity. His happiness? Was this was the speech of a dying man who had learned that morning that his last son had been killed by a tiger?

‘Whatever the agent producing this effect, it gives me the energy for two last requests. Will you approach, Sandilands? You have been enquiring into the deaths of my first two sons. Before I take my final breath I should like to hear your solution to these mysteries.’ Catching Joe’s hesitation and his wary glance at the others in the room, Udai smiled. ‘You may whisper the information if you wish.’

While the others turned and tactfully spoke quietly amongst themselves, Joe went to stand close to the ruler, bent and murmured into his ear. Udai Singh closed his eyes, smiled and nodded.

‘You repeat what Major Ajit Singh said to me half an hour ago. And I must believe my pair of hunting hounds when they are each pointing in the same direction. What a pity you will never work together, Sandilands! You must put up the quarry for others to shoot down. You see, Edgar – we plan our last hunt together! And now, my friends, I will impose upon you to perform a last service. I would like to ask you to witness my will.’

The old clerk stepped forward and handed parchments to Joe and Edgar.

‘Read it. It will look familiar. I would like you to sign the document exactly as you did before. I want you to take one of the copies away with you and present it to Sir George. You will note that the wording is the same, only the date has been changed. We now see that on today’s date, I, Udai Singh, Prince of Ranipur, name as my heir and future ruler of the state, my third son, Bahadur.’

He smiled to see their confusion. ‘It seems the astrologers had it right, after all!’