Текст книги "The Palace Tiger"

Автор книги: Barbara Cleverly

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Joe had fought back the temptation to add, ‘And Machiavellian deviousness? How about that quality, George?’ He thought he knew the answer.

His eyes rested again on what he suspected was the Machiavelli of Ranipur. Zalim was eagerly inviting the company to step outside and enjoy the night air, now cooling, he promised, as it wafted upwards from the lake behind the palace. An entertainment had been laid on for them in the courtyard.

They followed him, brandy glasses in hand, along a short corridor and down a flight of steps, emerging into the dark blue velvet of an Indian night. Music and chatter, laughter and short bursts of song greeted them and, unexpectedly, a crowd of courtiers, twinkling in jewels and satins, standing around a marble-paved sunken courtyard some thirty yards across and surrounded by a colonnaded piazza. Somewhere a fountain splashed and gushed, throwing up a fine cooling spray. The air was heavy with the scent from the orangeries which lined the courtyard and from the more distant blossom trees surrounding the lake. With a gesture, the Dewan invited the dinner guests to join him, seated cross-legged on the carpets which had been spread over the marble slabs. He indicated that Joe should sit at his left hand in the centre of the group and, at his nod, the music began in earnest as a small group of musicians gathered at the far end of the colonnade began to play.

Joe detected the sound of the tabor and sarangi, a flute and a guitar whose exponent was so skilled he could have appeared with the Philharmonic. The sweet notes of the tappa filled the air, a measure of plaintive simplicity which put Joe in mind of his own native Scottish tunes. After the briefest of pauses, the music struck up again but louder, faster and more compelling.

Into the arena swirled a group of female dancers, the bells on their ankles sounding an insistent rhythm as they stamped their way forward and took up their places on the black and white squares of the courtyard. Against this sombre backdrop the bright reds, blues, purples and yellows of their ankle-length petticoats of heavy silk stood out, lit by countless flares and strings of lights hanging from the columns. Their hair, jet-black, was smoothed down in gleaming curtains on either side of their faces, the rims of their dark eyes lined with kohl.

Nautch girls, that was what he had heard them called, though Joe had not yet seen nautch dancing. Much enjoyed by the bachelors in the employ of the East India Company, these performances were discouraged by their, for the most part, married and prudish successors from Victorian England. And more fool them! Joe thought as he settled to enjoy the dance. Expressive eyes and flashing smiles enchanted him and, as they began to dance to an ever faster rhythm, he was lost in admiration for their lithe vitality. Of the dozen dancers one or two appeared to be the stars and they came forward to perform individually before the Dewan. One in particular attracted Joe’s admiration. A little taller than the others, she was outstandingly acrobatic in her dancing and drew applause from the crowd. With the composure of Ellen Terry taking a third curtain call, she began to repeat her routine and Joe was intrigued to notice that whenever she came out of a turn, it was his eye she caught. He thought he must have been mistaken but no, when she rejoined the rest of the company, she continued to watch him. The Dewan himself seemed to be conscious of this. He turned to Joe with a raised eyebrow and, leaning towards him, in an amused tone whispered, ‘Her name’s Padmini!’

He continued to chuckle good-naturedly to himself until the dancers, with a final athletic flourish, disappeared.

Glasses of pomegranate juice and iced tea were suddenly at their elbows while the musicians wound down, playing a soft native tune. Suddenly, the Dewan rose to his feet and the rest of the audience rose also, a general stirring of excitement beginning to run through the assembled courtiers.

‘At this point in the evening’s entertainment my ancestors would have regaled you with a gladiatorial combat,’ said the Dewan conversationally to Joe. ‘But no longer, though I have in mind a contest of sorts. We Rajputs enjoy a sporting exhibition as much as the British, you know. We are hoping our guests will participate.’

Joe was beginning to feel a ripple of anxiety run through him. He hadn’t quite liked the emphasis on the word ‘British’. Surely they weren’t expecting him to put on a show? Good Lord! – didn’t they go in for bare-knuckle boxing and panther wrestling? There were lengths he was not prepared to go to even for the honour of the Empire. He waited in trepidation for the Dewan’s next announcement.

‘We are hoping to engage the might of Scotland Yard in a friendly – I hope friendly – round of one of our favourite Rajput games. Chaturanga, we call it.’

Joe searched his memory for a reference to this sport but drew a blank.

‘You play chess?’

‘Chess?’ Joe could only repeat in some astonishment. ‘A game which originated in India, I believe. Yes, I do . . . but – here? Now?’

‘Yes, indeed, here. Look! Do you see the squares? The courtyard is laid out for an open air game.’

Joe looked again at the pattern of black and white marble slabs and realized that they were more than merely decorative. He was looking at a huge gaming board.

‘This is an adaptation of our national game, chaupar or pucheesee,’ the Dewan was going on. ‘Normally it is played on a four-armed grid and rather similar to your own Ludo. Pieces move around the board according to numbers thrown using conch shells.’ Joe nodded dubiously. He had vaguely heard of this game. ‘But my brother is very fond of chess as it is played in Europe – it leaves less to chance and shows off the players’ skills – so he had the court adapted for playing this game. He understands that you are a skilled player, Commander . . .’ A courteous nod and a smile in his direction did nothing to ease Joe’s forebodings.

The crowd pressed forward, murmuring and smiling, the dark-suited dinner party guests distinguishable amongst but greatly outnumbered by turbaned Rajput nobles in court dress, diamonds winking and pearls gleaming against silk coats. The atmosphere was one of restrained joviality but with an undercurrent which to Joe was palpable, an undercurrent of excitement. They shuffled around the courtyard, taking up positions giving a good view of the chessboard. He tried to recall whether their interest went as far as betting on the outcome and wondered very much who his opponent would be. With sinking heart he acknowledged that this was undoubtedly a set-up and that one of these clever, competitive Rajputs had already been chosen to make a fool of the officer from Scotland Yard.

He was surprised and relieved to hear the Dewan announce that his opponent was to be Edgar Troop.

Smiling and feigning humble astonishment, Edgar took up a position on the opposite side of the square. He nodded courteously to Joe and clicked his heels. Joe did the same, his mind racing. He had no idea that Edgar could even play chess, but then, there were many facets of Edgar’s character which, thankfully, had so far remained a mystery.

Reminding himself that this was just a bit of after-dinner entertainment and that with deliberate sleight of hand they had been set against each other to amuse the more skilled Indian audience, Joe determined to give a good performance. Chess, for him, was the equivalent of battle planning and he began at once to check the lie of the land. He had no idea of the local rules and assumed that his opponent did. But the Dewan was speaking again.

‘Commander Sandilands has not played our national game before. I think, under the British rule of fair play, it would be in order to appoint an adviser, one to each side.’

A murmur of agreement went up.

‘Claude? May I ask you to second Sandilands? I myself will undertake to assist Captain Troop. Not that Edgar needs or would pay attention to advice, I think.’

Joe noticed that Colin O’Connor was frowning and looking disconcerted. He caught Joe’s eye and made a grimace Joe could not fathom. ‘Bad luck, old man, but do your best,’ was the nearest he could get to an interpretation.

The atmosphere was becoming increasingly tense, murmur and chatter shot through with sudden bursts of laughter, long speculative looks directed at the two players.

‘Are they betting on the result?’ Joe asked Vyvyan who had taken up a position at his right hand.

‘Betting? No, not at all. But the outcome will entertain them . . . whichever way it goes. They’re as fond of a bit of gossip and speculation as your average officers’ mess,’ he replied cryptically.

‘What the hell?’

‘Just calm down and go along with it, Sandilands. It’s only a game. It’ll give a lot of pleasure to a lot of people if you foul up and that’s the worst that can happen. At least in this combat nobody dies. They like a good show so I’d slightly overdo everything if I were you. Play to the gallery. Now listen. These are the rules. It’s very simple for a competent chess player which I understand you are . . .’

He explained the rules, which indeed appeared quite straightforward. So simple was the whole game that Joe could not for a moment understand why the crowd was still throbbing with an undercurrent of excitement.

‘This is all very well,’ he said impatiently, ‘and I don’t want to appear demanding, but when I play chess I normally play it with chessmen . . . you know . . . pawns, rooks, knights, perhaps even a king and queen . . . I see none here.’

Vyvyan gave a knowing smile. ‘Ah. Yes. The chessmen,’ he said mysteriously. ‘If I’m not mistaken – here they come!’

He turned to enjoy Joe’s expression of stunned amazement as the crowd parted and into the arena with a tinkle of bells, a drumming of bare feet and a whirl of bright skirts came two files of beautiful girls. With giggles and coquettish sideways glances from their kohl-rimmed eyes they took up their places on the board. Joe’s pawns and pieces were dressed in red and blue, Edgar’s in green and yellow. Joe’s astonishment turned to amusement and he began to relax.

The Dewan addressed the company again in his booming master of ceremonies voice. ‘When this game was invented by the Emperor Akbar, the chess pieces were slave girls and the winner of the round was permitted to take the whole lot away with him as his own. But we live in more civilized times. The winner of this game will not, of course, make off with the beauties you see before you. But he will have his prize.’ He paused theatrically, looking first at Joe then at Edgar. ‘He will have his choice of one of the girls for one night.’

Under cover of the chatter and laughter which broke out, Joe spluttered his disgust to Claude. With a fixed smile Claude replied, ‘When in Rome, Joe! Come on, it’s not the end of the world! It’s an honour you’ve been accorded. Try to look as though you appreciate it. For God’s sake, you can always plead a headache at the last moment!’ And then he added ominously, ‘If it should come to that. Look at the opposition, will you!’

They both looked towards Edgar, heavy, unattractive, the worse for alcohol but smugly confident and already running a lecherous eye over the girls.

‘La chevalerie oblige, Sandilands! Don’t you agree?’

‘See what you mean, sir. There are fates worse than losing at chess! And winning a night with Edgar must rank high on the list!’

Chapter Nine

Three notes on a silver trumpet called everyone to attention. The audience stopped moving about and looked expectantly from Joe to Edgar. The girls fell silent and held themselves in their positions as still as any chessmen, backs to their master, faces to the enemy, battle-ready.

Joe leaned to Vyvyan and said, ‘I don’t imagine, do I, that they are graded for height?’

‘Quite right,’ said Vyvyan. ‘Your pawns are the smallest and all the same size. All got up in red skirts. The blue girls, your main pieces, are in height order. You’ve got two small rooks on the outside, do you see? Larger knights next door, then bishops.’

‘Why do the bishops have elephants embroidered on their bodices?’ Joe asked.

‘Indian game, remember. Their armies were made up of four parts: foot soldiers – those are your pawns; chariots – that’s your rooks, the ones with the gold wheels on their backs; then cavalry – that’s your knights with the horse’s head embroidery; lastly, the elephants which are our bishops. In the centre, wearing crowns, you’ve got the two tallest ones, the king and queen.’

At that moment the blue queen, who was wearing a silver crown, turned her head to look at him and with a jolt Joe recognized Padmini.

The trumpet sounded again, a single note. Joe caught the eye of one of his red pawns. Did he have a feeling that she was expecting to be called on? He rather thought she did and he held up two fingers. The pawn duly advanced two squares and confronted Edgar’s front rank. Edgar sent forward one of his yellow-skirted pawns and the battle was engaged.

Joe surmised that no one would be entertained if the game dragged on and he decided to play with panache. He remembered a move he and a fellow officer had devised in the trenches in a despairing attempt to distract from the tedium and the terror of being pinned down by German artillery, unable to move forward or retreat. They’d called it ‘Haig’s Mate’ and if all went according to plan he should be able to close down the game in fifteen moves.

But Edgar was giving no quarter and was from the outset making clear his intention to win. He spent hardly any time considering his game, which seemed to be a style the audience and indeed the chess pieces appreciated. Joe noticed that on occasions when a player spent a little longer in thought, the piece herself, when finally called to action, was a fraction of a second ahead of the call, a slim foot edging forward in anticipation of the move.

Edgar soon extricated himself from Joe’s planned sequence and the advantage moved to and fro between the two well-matched players. One by one, pieces lost or sacrificed stamped off in a tinkle of bells to the edge of the board until only a handful were left on each side.

Joe hesitated before making the next move. He gratefully accepted a glass of pomegranate juice from a footman, using that as a respite from the remorseless speed of play. He noticed that Edgar was taking another whisky-soda from the tray. Edgar had wriggled out of all the traps Joe had set and gone on the attack with a flourish. Over the rim of his glass Joe suddenly noticed that the left foot of his blue queen was tapping out a pattern. Unlike the other pieces she was not wearing ankle bells and her movements were probably unnoticed by the crowd. He looked more carefully. Five taps. In the top left-hand corner of her square. Could she be giving him a signal? What would happen if he . . .? He ran his eye along the diagonals. Blast it! How could he not have noticed! The exhausting day, the champagne, the lateness of the hour – he could think of reasons enough, but Joe cursed himself for his lapse in attention.

He signalled to his queen that she should move five squares diagonally to the left. Unleashed at last, she swooped forward with the relish of an avenging Fury, dark skirts rustling, and rounded on Edgar’s king.

‘Check,’ announced Claude briskly.

This was Joe’s breakthrough and four decisive moves later Claude shouted, ‘Shah mat! The king is dead! Checkmate!’

Edgar stared at Joe across the courtyard, stiff with defiance and anger, but he bowed courteously. Joe returned the bow. To his alarm, the girls had fluttered back on to their squares and both armies now stood facing him, some looking modestly and evasively at their feet, others eyeing him with flirtatious speculation.

‘Time to bite the bullet, Sandilands. Don’t fuss!’ whispered Claude. ‘Just smile and pick a number.’

Joe caught the straight gaze of Padmini and without hesitation said, ‘If the blue queen would care to step forward . . .?’

Laughter and even a little discreet applause rippled round the square as she moved through the files to stand in front of him, still smiling.

The Dewan slapped him on the shoulder. ‘A good choice. And a fitting reward for a game well played. Edgar is not an easy opponent. You have had a long and exhausting day, Commander, and are probably looking forward to your bed. Padmini will escort you to your quarters. She too is a skilled performer. At chess. Perhaps you will keep each other awake practising your moves . . .’ He shook with laughter, involving everyone in his mischievous good humour. ‘Take care not to overtire yourself . . . tomorrow promises to be a busy day.’

‘Just go quietly, old man,’ advised Claude. ‘Autre pays, autres moeurs, don’t you know!’

‘If he reminds me I’m not in Knightsbridge now, I’ll hit him,’ Joe decided.

With as little ceremony as he could manage, he set off to follow the twinkling silver crown of Padmini who moved a few paces ahead of him, swaying through the thinning crowds and into the increasingly deserted corridors. They crossed courtyards silent but for a slight breeze stirring the leaves and the gentle splashing of fountains. In the distance Joe thought he caught sounds of distressed wailing and the low throb of a drum but all else was quiet.

At last, in the centre of a courtyard which he thought he recognized, Padmini paused and leaned over the basin of a fountain, dipping her arms in the cool water. Joe watched her playing with the drifting blossoms on the surface, deciding this was probably the time tactfully to tell her to return to her quarters rather than wait for the awkward moment when he would turn to face her on his doorstep. Did she speak any English? How on earth did you tell a girl in very rudimentary Hindi that, though you thought her the most arousing girl you had ever seen, her services were not required?

He joined her at the fountain, preparing his speech. But no words would come. He stared, overcome by the nearness of the girl, tongue-tied with awe for her beauty. In her clinging blue silk she was almost invisible in the dark courtyard but the moonlight caught the jewels of her crown and lit the smiling great eyes she turned to him. Joe was overcome. He was beginning to lose his struggle with the deeply primitive emotion that had him in its grip. With his last reserves of determination he cleared his throat and began to croak out his rejection speech.

‘Padmini? Have I got that right? Now, look here, Padmini, I’m most frightfully sorry but . . .’

The gazelle eyes flashed with comprehension then narrowed in disdain. Angrily, she leaned forward into the fountain and smacked the surface of the water hard, directing a spray of water straight at Joe’s face. With a peal of laughter to see his gasping astonishment, she turned and ran off leaving him dripping and cursing by the pool.

Bloody girl! But at least she’d taken the hint pretty quickly. With relief and disappointment in equal measure, he set off again, certain that he could find his own way back to his room from this spot. After a few paces he stopped and listened. Pattering feet were going ahead of him in the same direction.

He caught up with her at his door and rounded on her. Cool arms went up and locked with surprising strength behind his neck. He felt his shirt damp on his skin as she pressed herself to him and, standing on her toes, lifted her lips to kiss him. As their breath mingled he was enveloped by the sweet scent of the girl, attar of roses a seductive top-note to a surge of female warmth. His arms slipped of their own will around her waist. She was warm and scented and more than willing. She had attracted his attention, won the game for him and he would have said was claiming him as her prize. God! He needed this! And he’d earned it! ‘Another country, other customs,’ wasn’t that what Claude had said? Surrendering himself to the moment, Joe groaned and lowered his face to hers.

‘Aw, for God’s sake, Joe! They really stitched you up good, didn’t they!’

The door of his room had opened and lamplight from inside revealed the figure of Madeleine standing there, wearing a long white robe, a glass in her hand.

Joe couldn’t speak but anything he said would have been unheard as the two women faced each other. Padmini hissed something unintelligible in Hindi and Madeleine replied with matching scorn. ‘Same to you, sister! Now do us all a favour and beat it back to your lord and master!’ She grinned nastily. ‘And you can tell him you were outplayed. Victim of a discovered attack by the white queen!’

Padmini whirled around and moved away, a darker retreating shadow amongst the shadows of the courtyard.

‘Hell’s bells, Madeleine!’ Joe gasped. ‘What are you doing here?’

She pulled him inside, closed the door firmly and shot the bolt across.

‘Doing a bit of lonely drinking . . . Waiting for you to show up . . . Being your guardian angel . . .’

‘What do you mean? You’re not looking exactly angelic from where I’m standing!’

She eyed him critically. ‘You should get a look at yourself, mister! Now, you were billed as a clever feller. War hero . . . survivor. Didn’t they tell me you worked for Military Intelligence? Those are smart guys. And you fell for it! Feet – well, perhaps some other part of your anatomy – first! She’s a plant! She’s the Dewan’s trained pillow talker. Didn’t you guess?’

Joe could only stare in surprise and disgust.

‘This whole place,’ Madeleine waved her arms around, champagne slopping on to the carpet, ‘is an anthill. It’s all murmurings and gossip and plotting and all the information that’s going gets channelled right back to the Dewan. If you take a leak in the ghulskhana he’ll hear about it before you’ve flushed! He’s not sure why you’re here but he doesn’t trust the British. He knows you’re close to Sir George and that means you’re at the heart of the government so he wants to keep you under close surveillance. And you couldn’t have closer surveillance than the watch his pet trollop was about to keep on you! She’d have stuck closer than gum on your shoe!’

Joe’s feeling of foolish inadequacy was giving way to anger. ‘I don’t talk in my sleep, they tell me . . . I can’t see that there’s a problem. And,’ he added defiantly, ‘had it occurred to you that this particular surveillance might not have been unwelcome?’

Madeleine swept a knowing and cynical glance over Joe. ‘So I see. Well, you can always go take a cold shower. Another cold shower. That’s what you British do, isn’t it? Go ahead – I’ll look the other way.’

Joe swallowed and tried to keep his tone polite as he spoke. ‘Would you like me to ring for Govind and have you escorted back to your own rooms?’ He went to the bell pull and took hold of it.

To his dismay, the glass fell from her fingers and she put both hands over her face, silently sobbing.

‘Oh, Lord, Madeleine! Now what?’

‘Can’t you see it yet, you great lummox? I can’t go back there. I wouldn’t be safe. They hate me much more than they hated Prithvi. They blame me for everything! They probably think I killed him! They want me dead! And not just because I’m a white woman. Did you know all widows are unclean? If they can’t get rid of them on a funeral pyre they shut them up in a little room and never let them out. How long do you suppose I’d last out there? Without Prithvi to look out for me I’m just a target! This is the only place I feel safe. You have got a gun, haven’t you?’

Joe nodded. First Bahadur, now Madeleine, both seeing themselves as potential victims. And both were seeking help from an outsider who was himself insecure and exposed in alien territory.

‘You can’t stay here! Imagine the gossip! What about your reputation? What about my reputation . . . I mean – how do I explain this to your father-in-law?’ he heard himself spluttering like a maiden aunt. ‘Look, Madeleine, can’t you go to your brother for help until you can both get out of here?’

Madeleine gave him another of her long incredulous stares. ‘Stuart is . . . shall we say . . . otherwise engaged and would be very upset to receive a sisterly visit. He doesn’t even need to play chess to get the girls! And I notice you are admitting that this is a pretty hostile environment. Did you hear yourself say “get out of here” as in the sense of “escape from”? Well, that’s exactly what I’m going to do. I’m getting out, Joe. If I have to fly one of Prithvi’s planes to Delhi to do it! But I’m not going empty-handed. I gave him two years of my life and someone’s going to pay for those two years. I need to stay alive long enough to talk to Udai Singh . . . come to some agreement . . . and I can tell you – I’ve got my ticket out of here! And if you’ve any sense, you’ll be in the passenger seat when I take off, Joe.’

‘You’d oblige me, Madeleine, if you and your brother would remain in Ranipur for a while. You yourself, if you remember, asked my opinion on the plane crash that killed your husband and the Resident also has asked me to investigate. You and your brother are vital to the investigation and you can’t leave until I’ve been able to gather evidence and statements.’

Madeleine gave a derisive laugh. ‘Oh, yeah? Didn’t they tell you in Simla that the British have no legal or criminal jurisdiction in the princely states? You can detect all you like, Joe, and, sure, it would be good to know who’s killing the heirs but there’s nowhere you can go with the information. There’s nothing you can do but report back when you get out . . . If they let you get out!’

Joe allowed himself a wry smile. ‘That’s an over-simple but – I have to say – incisive summary of my brief. Don’t tell me you’re on Sir George’s payroll too?’

‘Never met the guy.’

‘Anything left in that bottle?

Joe’s mood was becoming less buoyant by the minute. Excitement and anger were ebbing away leaving a wistful sympathy for the hopelessness of Madeleine’s situation. He watched her with pity as she found two glasses and filled them clumsily with champagne. With sinking heart he guessed that she needed to talk through her grief with someone and resentfully wondered why she couldn’t have taken up Lizzie Macarthur’s offer of a safe haven and a sympathetic ear. But of course, he had an obvious attraction that Lizzie didn’t possess: in a desperate corner, a revolver and a steady hand will always win out over a parasol and a sharp tongue.

He eyed her warily as she touched his glass with hers. ‘You’re a resourceful woman, Madeleine. But – tell me – what are your immediate plans?’

‘You mean how soon am I going to get out of your hair?’ She laughed. ‘Don’t concern yourself, Joe. Your virtue’s safe with me! I find dripping-wet, detumescent, disapproving cops totally resistible. I’m going to sleep there – on that couch. I’ve stolen a couple of your cushions. I’ve used your bathroom – brought my own toothbrush – so – it’s all yours!’

She put down her glass, kicked off her shoes and stumbled towards the couch. ‘See you in the morning, Joe. Sweet dreams!’

The champagne was still chilled, still fizzing and with a sharp edge that exactly reflected his mood. He took the bottle, surprised to find that it was only half empty. There seemed to be no good reason for not finishing it. He poured himself another glass and sipped quietly, sitting on the edge of his bed, waiting. After a few minutes of cushion pounding, wriggling and muffled oaths, his guest fell silent and still. When he was quite sure that Madeleine was asleep he went into his bathroom and spent long luxurious minutes under his lukewarm shower. Belatedly noticing that Madeleine had made off with his bathrobe he wandered naked out of the ghulskhana and crept silently around his room turning out lights, checking doors, windows, cupboards and even the space under his bed. Five minutes of reconnaissance in enemy territory could save your life and he was not going to let his guard slip now. He had learned on the North-West Frontier to be perpetually vigilant and though these silken, sophisticated surroundings in no way compared with that harsh hell-hole he thought they might in their own way prove even more lethal.

He quietly closed the last wardrobe door.

‘I already checked all those,’ said an amused voice from the couch. ‘And that’s not all I’ve checked . . . Charming derrière, Commander!’