Текст книги "The Palace Tiger"

Автор книги: Barbara Cleverly

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 7 (всего у книги 19 страниц)

Chapter Ten

Joe awoke to a discreet cough at his side and the tinkle of china on a tray being placed on a table at the foot of his bed by a cheerful Govind who made his way to the bathroom and turned on the taps. Joe just managed to find his voice in time to prevent him from drawing back the curtains to let in the full searchlight of an Indian early morning sun. His brain was still in the middle of a double declutch but he felt certain there were aspects of the night he would not wish to have illuminated until he was fully in control of events once more.

He lay low until Govind had disappeared. Where to start? His headache was not as bad as he feared it might be. Even more encouraging – there was no one sleeping on his couch. Or ever had been, to all appearances. All was neat, cushions back in place and surely that was his bathrobe hanging on the door? He sat up and called out softly, dreading to hear a reply: ‘Are you there, Madeleine?’

No reply.

Relief washed over him and for a moment he was tempted to allow himself the delusion that the events of the last evening had never occurred. The discovery of a still-warm place on the other side of his bed, an indented pillow and several golden hairs in that indentation brought an even more unpalatable scenario to mind. He’d drunk too much champagne but surely he would recall the intimacy implied by his finds? He felt about guiltily under the covers for other clues but found nothing more incriminating than a folded square of writing paper.

‘Didn’t Nancy ever complain that you talk in your sleep?’ was the short message.

Almost as a signature the sound of a small aeroplane passed overhead. For a moment he thought it might be Madeleine heading off for Delhi but the plane circled and returned before flying off again towards the Aravalli hills.

There was something he had to check on, he remembered, and, scrambling from his bed, he searched about in the waste paper basket and in all the corners where she might have abandoned an empty champagne bottle. There was only the one he remembered finishing himself. Madeleine had, he calculated, in spite of appearances – the husky gin-fogged voice, the mistimed gestures – actually drunk in his presence about a thimbleful of wine. Her first glass had been spilled on the floor, he remembered, and the bottle was chill and must have been almost full when he arrived.

Madeleine was putting on a pretence of drunkenness. But why would she do that? Protective colouring perhaps? Drunks are never taken seriously. They are disregarded, an embarrassment; people look the other way when they enter a room. People underestimate them. He sighed as he realized that he had been misled into behaving like this towards Madeleine himself. And this had clearly been her intention. Poor little Madeleine, widowed and drowning her grief in a bottle. A common enough solution in India and therefore an easy deception but, if the drunkenness was a deception, what about the grief?

Joe wondered again about Madeleine’s ambivalent attitude to her circumstances. She had loved her husband by all accounts whilst hating his home and family. If something had happened to upset the balance in her life . . . But, of course, something had happened. Something of earthshaking proportions for Madeleine. The oldest son had died. At a stroke, Prithvi the gadabout socialite who was quite prepared to spend the larger amount of his time living with princely abandon in Europe or America with his adored young wife was now next in line for the throne of Ranipur. Had he succumbed to pressures put on him in the weeks following his brother’s death, pressures to devote himself to the serious business of ruling, to return to family traditions, take an Indian wife to ensure the succession? How secure had Madeleine’s marriage been latterly?

She had the technical skill and the opportunity to cut just the right number of steel threads to send her husband plummeting to the ground. Had she grown weary after two years of the stifling palace life of a princess – and a despised and disregarded princess at that? She had said something last night that had stayed with him through the mental fog into which he had descended. ‘I’ve got my ticket out of here!’ She was going to persuade the maharaja, by fair means or foul, to allow her to leave and not empty-handed. He wondered what exactly the ‘ticket’ consisted of.

Perhaps her brother Stuart could shed a light on all this? Joe looked at his watch. Six o’clock and he was due to see him at nine. Time to do justice to the pot of coffee and the pile of toast Govind had just brought in. He thought he would leave the lid of the silver chafing dish which undoubtedly contained eggs in some form or another firmly in place. He’d enjoy a cool bath and then a head-clearing walk in the freshest air he would experience that day, heading out to the polo ground perhaps, keeping well clear of the women’s quarters and the town. Half an hour later, he put on the white shirt, the light box cloth trousers and the riding jacket Govind had selected for him, snatched up a topee and set out.

The sun was already beating down fiercely when he walked out of the palace at seven. As he strolled out on to the verandah looking across the undulating polo ground an elegant figure in riding habit mounted on a gleaming black Arab mare spotted him, turned and came on towards him.

Third Her Highness was followed by a syce riding an equally fine horse a few yards behind. The red silk tunic and turban and the black trousers he wore had been carefully chosen, Joe guessed, to complement the white jodhpurs and black jacket of his mistress. Even the white egret pecking his way in their wake across the lawn seemed to involve himself in the frieze they presented. Raising a foot, the bird offered a hieroglyphic profile and stalked forward. Unconsciously, Shubhada echoed its movements, tilting an imperious nose that would have looked impressive on a coin.

‘Commander Sandilands. Good morning,’ she called. ‘I was surprised not to see you exercising earlier.’

‘I overslept, Your Highness,’ he said with a disarming smile. ‘Unused as I am to Rajput hospitality I indulged too recklessly in all the good things the palace has to offer.’

Oh what the hell! If the palace grapevine was all it was cracked up to be she’d probably heard he’d defeated a Russian grand master and slept with a whole boardful of chess pieces.

‘Then I recommend a short canter.’ She turned and spoke to her syce who dismounted and led his horse over to Joe. ‘Shall we?’

Luckily for Joe the horse was well into its morning exercise. He thought he would have had quite a struggle to control the magnificent animal coming straight from the stables.

Shubhada led the way at a canter along the polo field and Joe began to enjoy himself, thankful that he’d remembered to put on the topee against the sun. It occurred to him that he was taking part in a very unusual scene. Maharanees like Shubhada would at any time in the past and, as far as he was aware, in the present, be kept well away from the eyes of any man and yet here she was riding off with him with the ease of any Western girl.

She stopped and dismounted at the far end of the polo field in a shady grove of acacia trees and Joe joined her, hitching their horses to a branch. He was curious to know why she had arranged this time alone with him. He wondered whether she knew the true nature of her husband’s illness. He would have very much liked to know how her own future would be affected by his death. He asked none of his questions. Even in riding clothes she was regal and a Scotland Yard officer knows his place.

She went to sit on a fallen tree trunk and pointed a finger at the other end. Joe sat down and waited.

‘I wonder if you are aware, Commander,’ she said finally, ‘of the seriousness of my husband’s condition?’

Perhaps this interview wasn’t going to be as awkward as he had anticipated.

‘I am, Your Highness, and may I offer you my –’

‘Yes, you may,’ she interrupted, ‘but when the time comes. You will hear more from his physician, I am sure, but we are thinking that he will not last out the summer. We ought, of course, to have moved him to Switzerland where we would normally spend the hot season but his doctor has advised against it. Udai would not survive the journey apparently. And, naturally, as ruler, he prefers to die where he has lived, here at the heart of his kingdom.’

‘A devastating loss for many people,’ Joe murmured.

‘Far more than you can ever know,’ she said. ‘But the ones who suffer most at these times of change are the ruler’s wives. And, of these, the youngest, childless wife has most to lose.’

He looked at her, taken aback by her sudden frankness.

She smiled. ‘I think you don’t like me very much, Commander. There is no reason why you should. You are a stranger here, you owe me no loyalty or affection but – I’ll tell you something – I’m very glad that you’re here! I was educated in Europe and, believe me, in the small academic and aristocratic worlds in which I moved in London, Paris and Geneva one came to accept the security of a well-policed community. I know you have no jurisdiction here in Ranipur but, by your presence, you remind me that the ordered world in which I grew up is still available to me should I need to retreat to it.’

What was this? A veiled request for another ticket out of the state? In a few gallant phrases, Joe encouraged her to depend on him to do whatever was in his power to ease her burden.

She smiled. ‘Remember you said that, Commander! I shall!’

Emboldened by the new, more approachable persona she was showing him, he dared to ask her how she had come to meet the maharaja.

Her smile broadened. ‘I wish I could tell you it was a romantic meeting . . . you know . . . his eyes caught mine across the crowded floor of a hunt ball . . . I hurried to help him up when he fell from his polo pony . . . but no. It was an arranged marriage.’

Sensing she had her audience in the palm of her hand, she continued. ‘My father is himself a raja in a southern state. An enlightened man where gender is concerned. His own mother, my grandmother, ruled the state during her son’s minority with frightening efficiency for many years . . .’

She saw Joe’s surprise and added, ‘There are one or two states where the succession is through the female line – Travancore and Cochin, for example, and women have ruled in Bhopal for generations. Indeed, the Tiger Queen of Bhopal came out of purdah the more efficiently to work with her people when the country was in the throes of a dire famine and that not so many years ago. Many ranees followed her example. My father saw no reason not to raise his three daughters – I’m the eldest – out of purdah and with all the advantages available to his sons. We girls learned mathematics, science and languages alongside our brothers. I rode and hunted with them. Indeed, I do believe I was a much better sportsman than any of them.’ She frowned. ‘Oh, dear! I don’t know the feminine of “sportsman”!’

Joe pretended to reflect for a moment. ‘I rather think it’s “sportsman”, Your Highness.’

She gave him a sideways look. ‘So, it wasn’t until I was shipped off to a girls’ academic establishment in Brighton that I learned that girls were considered a different and inferior race. I have never accepted that. More importantly, nor did my father. He had many requests for my hand in marriage and consulted me on each. He was perfectly agreeable to refusing them all as it would have entailed a life of indulged slavery. I would have disappeared into a zenana where I would have led the life of a recluse.’

Joe was stricken by the idea of this beautiful and vital young girl being hidden away for the sole pleasure of one man.

‘By my twenty-first birthday with my younger sisters conventionally married off (to their satisfaction – they were not coerced) my father and I had acquired a reputation for choosiness and the offers began to dry up. Then Pa met an old friend in London. Udai Singh, he remembered, was an easy-going soul, well travelled, clever, and enlightened when it came to the position of women. My father had not until then considered him as a suitable match for me because he was of my father’s generation, comfortably married with two wives already and grown-up heirs. He was not looking for a third wife. But he was introduced to me and,’ she smiled at a memory, ‘that was that. Coup de foudre. On his part at any rate,’ she added bluntly. ‘It was not ideal. I was destined to be more than just a third wife but . . . well . . . Udai is very rich – and, as you see, he lets me live exactly as I want to live.’

‘You enjoy the best of both worlds, Your Highness,’ he said and dared to add, ‘But how long will it last? Is there anything in the future that could alarm you?’

‘I’ll say!’ she said with unexpected energy. ‘This freedom you see me enjoying is an illusion! When Udai dies and the men are at each other’s throats fighting for their place on the gaddi what do you suppose happens to the widows? We cannot remarry, you know. In the past there was always the funeral pyre as a quick solution to the problem and I’m sure it is an option that First Her Highness would choose if the interfering British still allowed her to do that. They outlawed the practice many years ago.’ She looked at him enquiringly, wondering how far he understood India with its rules written and unwritten, its customs upheld or suppressed according to Western morality. ‘Royal wives tend these days to find themselves under guard – oh, a very discreet guard, of course – when their husbands die. Udai will go alone to his funeral pyre. And rightly so.’

‘But you would say that his wives will be left more than usually forlorn?’ Joe prompted.

‘A wife can only continue to hold on to power and respect for her position if her son inherits and she becomes regent during his minority. And now the sons of the first two wives are both dead, First and Second Her Highnesses might as well both be dead. It was always a sadness for Udai that he had so few sons. Many daughters (expensively married off!) but only two sons survived infancy and, in his own way, each was a disappointment to his father.’

She tapped her boot with the riding crop in some agitation then said, ‘Udai had begun to acknowledge that neither Bishan nor Prithvi was going to please him. I think one of his reasons for marrying me was to renew the chance of filling the royal cradle with a series of strong, acceptable sons. But sadly . . .’ She looked away to hide her emotions.

‘And now the two main players have been swept from the board, the palace strong men are jockeying for position?’ Joe said.

She laughed. ‘How you mix your sporting metaphors, Commander! But, yes, you’re right! Udai has many ambitious cousins here at court who would like nothing more than to be named as his heir. He has countless relations out there in the moffussil,’ she waved a deprecating hand in the general direction of the desert beyond, ‘to say nothing of his so able elder brother! So many players! I sometimes think this whole succession problem could be worked out on a chessboard! And never forget that more than one of the strongest pieces are representing the interests of the British Government. Sir George Jardine is definitely a player.’

‘A knight! He’d be a knight!’ said Joe. ‘Two steps forward, one to the side, always going over your head!’

‘Of course! And Sir Claude? Now he prefers to move tangentially, sneaking up on his target crabwise . . . he’d be a bishop!’ she said, almost playfully, joining in his game. ‘But all we plodding, powerless pawns can do is keep our heads down and sacrifice ourselves for our royal master,’ she added bitterly.

Joe considered the clever face looking mournfully into the distance and wondered why she was attempting this bluff. Pawn? Plodding? Powerless? No. He was looking at a black queen. The most powerful piece on the board. And this was no nautch girl in spangled tiara pretending for the space of a game to have power. This was a diamond-crowned woman whose power came from within and he had no doubt that when her moment came she would swoop about the board in any direction she chose and weaker pieces would topple. No one would be safe from her gliding attack. Watch out, Claude!

‘Is it at all reassuring to have the Vyvyans at your elbow?’ he asked. ‘They would seem to represent a certain security, a familiar London way of going on. Claude strikes me as being the best the civil service has to offer.’

Did her lip curl slightly as she replied? He thought it did. ‘A true product of Haileybury. He does – what would you say? – everything by the book, and, yes, that, in its way, is reassuring. You always know exactly where you are with Vyvyan. But that can be a problem when you realize that where you are with him is many leagues behind his master, the British Government. Don’t be deceived by his bonhomie, his easy way with the natives, Commander – he’s a dog with one master. He talks with open-minded concern about the well-being of the state of Ranipur and its inhabitants, he makes suggestions for improvements to our lives but he’d cheerfully have us all shot from cannon if His Majesty’s Government gave the command.’

Joe was taken aback by the sarcasm in her tone and turned the conversation. ‘And Lois Vyvyan? Is it a comfort to have available the company of an educated and sophisticated woman?’ Joe asked.

‘Oh, Mrs Vyvyan,’ she replied with a shrug, ‘Lois is as cultured as her pearls!’

Startled by the casually cruel remark and unsure how to respond, he remained silent.

‘Minor aristocracy fallen on hard times,’ she enlarged on her remark. ‘Her father was a military man . . . army, I believe . . . Sir Alistair Graham. Lois has done well for herself landing Claude Vyvyan. A well-qualified, good-looking chap like him could probably – should probably – have aimed for an heiress of some sort. I don’t imagine that your government pays him much, though his prospects are good. A wealthy wife would have been a great asset to him. I fear Claude made the mistake of marrying too early in his career.’

Joe was amused. Again, the tones of Queen Mary came vividly to mind. She had discussed the domestic arrangements of one of her footmen with just the same tone of proprietorial concern.

‘But you are too good a listener, Commander. I see I shall have to beware or you’ll ensnare me into admitting it was I who stole the Koh-i-nur diamond! We should return to the palace where I understand you have a busy morning of interviews arranged.’

His audience was over. Joe was being dismissed. He rose to his feet and extended a courteous hand to help her up and then brought her horse over to her. She waited for him to put out his hand again to hoist her up into the saddle and with a regal inclination of the head urged her horse into a showy trot heading in the direction of the stables.

‘Now what the hell was all that about?’ Joe wondered.

Chapter Eleven

He followed at a discreet distance, handed his horse over to a waiting syce then began to wander back to the New Palace. From the shaded verandah on the northern side he stood and watched as a small plane hummed into sight and landed behind a group of low, one-storey buildings screened by a line of poplar trees a quarter of a mile away. Joe decided that if he set off now he would be able to greet Stuart as he was finishing his post-flight checks. A little earlier than planned perhaps but Joe liked to see the people he was interviewing in their context, even catching them off guard.

Setting his topee firmly in place before venturing again into the sunshine he made for the hangar. The pilot, who was indeed Stuart Mercer, was busy giving instructions to an Indian flight engineer in what sounded like a mixture of English and Hindi. There was a good deal of agreeing going on and this appeared to be an easy relationship.

‘Captain Mercer!’ Joe called.

‘Oh, hi there, Sandilands! Good to see you! It’s early – you had coffee? We’ll have a cup of java – though out here it’s more likely to be Mysore. Good, anyway, wherever it comes from!’ He nodded to his engineer who hurried off to fetch more coffee.

Joe liked Americans. He admired their easy ways and their directness but above all he respected the courage and tenacity with which he’d seen them fight alongside in Europe in a struggle which was not their own. And top of the heap, for him, were the young flyers of the Escadrille Américaine. Volunteers, and for the most part from privileged backgrounds, they had wangled themselves into the war before their country was ready to commit them, before it even had an air corps of its own, by being taken under the wing of the French air force. The original group of seven, a mixture of rich playboys, foreign legionnaires, Ivy League graduates and stunt-flyers, had trained in legendary luxury and splendour at Luxeuil in the Vosges. When finally they were unleashed, their effect was deadly. The playboy squadron fought with the unthinking bravery, the dash and skill of a troop of medieval knights, and stories of their exploits had gone like wildfire through the allied forces. Some of the original seven even survived to preside over the adoption of the squadron into the US Air Service, late in the war, in the spring of 1918.

To have served with such a unit was a great honour and must, Joe estimated, have made a considerable impression on Prithvi Singh, prince of a warrior state and amateur airman. He looked from the neat, active figure of Captain Mercer to the planes lined up behind him in the hangar. It stood at the end of a taxiway, screened by trees, and at first sight appeared to be an offshoot of the royal stables. The building combined functionality and decorative grace.

Following his gaze, Stuart gave an understanding smile and said, ‘Okay, let’s go have a look at the planes while we’re waiting for our coffee, shall we?’

They strolled over to the hangar, enjoying the freshening breeze that blew through the open ends.

‘Not a dozen, you see, as some of the society magazines would have you believe. Prithvi has – had – five. Now four. Well chosen all the same and goodness knows how much he had to lay out to locate them and have them brought here.’

As Joe’s eyes grew used to the shade he focused on a familiar shape.

‘Yep, that’s a Curtiss Jenny like the one that crashed. We had them for training and aerobatics. Good little plane – anyone can fly it – teach you if you like? No?’

Joe peered into the cockpit fancying himself at the controls. On the pilot’s seat was a small stuffed toy. A tiger with gleaming glass eyes. Joe reached in and picked it up. ‘Good luck charm?’ he asked with a friendly smile. ‘I suppose all the Escadrille Américaine pilots carried a talisman of some sort or another? I know the British did.’

‘Yes. We’re a superstitious lot. But we called ourselves the Lafayette. I was a member of the Lafayette Flying Corps.’ He paused and returned Joe’s smile. ‘I guess you probably know that . . . And the tiger ought by rights to be a black velvet cat. We all carried one. Mine got lost somewhere between France and the States. A tiger seemed an appropriate replacement. Still, I’ve always hung on to the other charm we would none of us in the squadron take to the air without.’ He looked questioningly at Joe. ‘You were in Military Intelligence – you must have heard the rumours?’

Joe nodded. ‘It was generally thought you chaps tucked a lady’s silk stocking under your flying helmet for luck!’

Stuart grinned. ‘That’s right. But it had to be freshly worn, of course. And if you had a crash it meant that the lady didn’t care for you any more.’

He reached into the plane and pulled out a flying helmet. With the gesture of a conjuror, he extracted a black silk stocking. ‘Can’t get out of the habit, you see. But they’re not so easy to come by in India. I had to pay someone to steal this for me!’

Joe didn’t seek to know more of its provenance.

‘But, you know, that story’s all romantic hogwash! We did carry stockings – but not for luck!’

To Joe’s surprise, in a practised gesture, Stuart pulled the stocking over his face and grinned evilly at him through the flimsy fabric. The effect was alarming. The features were no longer recognizable, the gleam of eyes and teeth only visible beneath the flattening taut silk. The leg of the stocking was knotted into a pigtail which added to the outlandish image.

‘Face mask! Damn good protection against the cold when you’re flying in winter at ten thousand feet,’ Stuart explained, replacing it in his helmet. ‘And, in fact, it’s useful against the dust storms out here.’

They moved on down the hangar. As they went, Joe’s eye was caught by a rolled-up mattress neatly propped against a wall in a small ante-room the size of a horse stall. ‘I hear you sometimes have a guest for the night?’ said Joe speculatively.

Stuart smiled. ‘Bahadur, you mean? Doesn’t take you long to work out the comings and goings in this labyrinth! I feel sorry for that poor little feller. He thinks he’s in danger and I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s right. He’s got the idea that if he’s a target, then he’s going to be a moving target. Speaking as a flyer who’s survived, I think that’s sound tactics. I help him out when I can. But, you know, Joe, if someone around here wants him dead, then dead is what he’s going to be sooner rather than later.’

He spoke with the matter-of-fact acceptance of death Joe was accustomed to hearing from men who had lost comrades every day in the war and continued cheerfully enough with his guided tour. ‘Parked over there you’ve got a Sopwith Camel and then at the far end you’ll see two enemies from the war. This here’s a Nieuport 17 . . .’

‘That’s what you flew in France, isn’t it?’

‘It is. The Lafayette and the French Storks, both outfits flew it. Helped us get on top of the Fokkers that had been doing us so much damage.’ He smiled. ‘You can imagine what we called it!’

Stuart stood by the side of the bi-plane and patted its gleaming wooden propeller. Joe could see how one could get fond of this little plane. Nearly half the size of the Jenny, with a gently rounded fuselage, it reminded him of his first pony. The compulsion to stroke its shining flank was irresistible.

‘You’ve not been tempted to paint the insignia of the Lafayette on the side?’ Joe asked, fingers trailing along the sleek grey paintwork. ‘The Apache head, I mean.’

‘Seminole,’ said Stuart. ‘It was a Seminole wearing a war bonnet. No. Some things are better forgotten.’

He strolled over to the last plane. ‘And this here’s the best plane built in the war years. German air force wasn’t supplied with it until the spring of 1918. If they’d had it earlier . . .’ He shook his head. ‘I wouldn’t be standing here and the whole war could well have swung the other way. You’ve got to admire it though. And you have to picture it with Manfred von Richthoven at the controls.’

‘The Red Baron? Is this what he flew?’

‘Yep. His unit was the first to be issued with it.’

Joe had never seen the Fokker D. VII close to and found himself murmuring in agreement. The single-seater biplane had a narrow, razor-edged fuselage and squared-off wings. Was it handsome? No, rather it was purposeful and sinister, though Joe acknowledged that this could have been the effect of the black paintwork relieved only by a stylized white imperial eagle stencilled on the fuselage behind the pilot’s seat.

‘160 h.p. Mercedes engine, max speed 124 m.p.h., climbs to ten thousand feet in just over nine minutes. A killing machine. But its best trick is its ability to hang on its propeller at altitude. When the Nieuport will stall or have to lose height, this baby just keeps on soaring.’

The clink of china and a musical call drew their attention back to Ahmed. ‘There’s our coffee! We’ll go sit in the shade over there and you can ask me some policeman-style questions . . . some more policeman-style questions!’ he said with slight emphasis. ‘Now we’ve both established who we’re talking to,’ he added.

‘Was it so obvious?’ asked Joe, disarmed by the man’s openness.

‘No. You’re good. But, then, so am I. I may take risks in the air but when my feet are on the ground I’m a careful man. And I take no one at face value either. Plenty of carpet-baggers and scoundrels around after the war; folks who’d never heard a shot fired in anger suddenly awarded themselves medals and turned con-artist. Old pros like us can suss them out straight away but most folks are easily taken in. But I guess you can’t do much bluffing flying a plane! Either you can or you crash!’

His eyes clouded for a moment as he sipped his coffee with an appreciative grimace. ‘But the question you’d really like an answer to is why am I still alive and why is Prithvi dead in my place? And I’ll tell you, Joe, I’d like to hear some answers myself.’

‘Well, whichever of you was the intended victim – and we’ll examine that later – the method of killing may give some solid evidence. List for me, will you, the people who had the technical skill and the opportunity to cut through the elevator wires.’

‘Four people. I would, of course. My sister Madeleine. Ahmed, the engineer you saw just now. And Ahmed’s brother Ali.’

‘This may sound ridiculous but I leave nothing to chance . . . Prithvi himself? Would he have had the knowledge?’

Stuart snorted at the deviousness of the question and considered his answer.

‘No, I don’t believe he would. He’d have been able to tell you what the elevator did because he used it but he probably thought it started and ended with the joy stick. I could never get him interested in the mechanics of the planes. For him, airplanes were like horses – you climbed aboard and rode ’em. You didn’t concern yourself too much with the feeding and watering and the state of their teeth and tack. But I see what you mean . . . a sort of suicidal last grand gesture. Cocking a snook at his papa? “Here’s how much I think of your state – I’ll splat myself all over it.”’