Текст книги "The Palace Tiger"

Автор книги: Barbara Cleverly

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 8 (всего у книги 19 страниц)

He shook his head, still thoughtful. ‘Naw! That wasn’t Prithvi. He could be a bit of a jerk but underneath he was all Rajput. A scrapper. I admired him. He took on his father and his uncle and faced them both down. I’m talking about his marriage now. He stood by Madeleine in the face of a lot of opposition. He had guts. The arm-twisting went on right from the moment they were married. First off Prithvi was told not to get involved with an American girl and when he took no notice and did and was rash enough to bring his bride home with him, well, you can imagine, the reception was not exactly warm. They never let up on the pressure to get him to marry some respectable Indian girl of their choice. I lost count of the princesses that were dangled before him – they were still trying right up to his death. He rejected a daughter of the house of Jodhpur only last month. All out of loyalty to Madeleine. She’s a tough girl, my sister, and she knows what she wants. Made Prithvi swear she’d be the only wife. Maddy’s not one to play second fiddle to anyone. Prithvi was as good as his word. And he was more than half-way to becoming a good pilot.’

Joe looked around the small airfield. ‘I don’t see . . . Ali – did you say?’

‘No one sees Ali,’ said Stuart bodefully. ‘Guy’s disappeared. He worked on the planes with his brother. Ali was my rigger and Ahmed my fitter. I’ve questioned Ahmed. First thing I did! You bet! No one’s seen Ali since yesterday morning. Early. He was working on the plane as normal and then just lit out. No one saw him go. Ahmed turned up to check the engine before the flight.’

‘And Ahmed failed to notice the cables?’

Stuart’s jaw tightened and he squinted into the distance, unable to hold Joe’s gaze. ‘He didn’t notice. But why the hell should he? His responsibility was the engine. He assumed his brother had left the plane ready for flight. He always had. That’s what always happened. If I’d taken the flight instead of Prithvi, I might have noticed. But, Joe, I can’t be certain.

‘Those cables are fine – from a few feet away you can hardly see them and the saboteur had a little trick up his sleeve.’

He gestured to the hangar. ‘Come and have a look.’

Coiled on a work bench were the blackened remains of the lethal cable. Joe picked up the raw edge and ran a finger over it. He considered the smear of thick black engine oil on his hand.

‘Right,’ said Stuart. ‘He put that stuff over the cut strands so’s there’d be no shine of freshly sawn metal to give him away. And I’ll tell you something else. When you line this up in the position it would have occupied – and I already have – you’ll see that the frayed part is right over the dark-painted part of the fuselage. Just where it doesn’t show. Camouflage. Careful type.’

‘Careful. Yes. And what else can we infer? What’s your opinion of the man who did this?’

‘Someone who knows planes, that’s for sure. Someone who knew exactly how many threads to cut through. Someone like Ali.’

‘Ali is your rigger, you say?’

‘Yes. It’s a vital job. These crates are held together with not much more than wire, string and glue and they get buffeted out of shape in the air. As soon as they land, your rigger gets going with his spanners and his levels and he trues it all up again ready for the next flight. It’s a skilled job. Ahmed’s taken over his brother’s duties.’

‘Who would have the clout to put pressure on Ali to sabotage the plane and then make sure he wasn’t around to tell anyone?’

Stuart spread his hands in a hopeless gesture. ‘Dozens of people. The pressure could be money or it could be favours owed or promised. Society here is very . . .’ He hesitated for a moment. ‘. . . seigneurial. Family, tribe – it works through a hierarchy with the maharaja at the top of the pile. Everyone owes allegiance to someone above in the pecking order. Ali was quite low down the ladder and there must be, as I say, dozens of guys who could give him the run-around. And that’s not counting the women! First Her Highness would certainly not have been displeased to see Prithvi plummet to the ground!’

‘This is bringing us now to the question of who exactly was the intended victim. From your last remark I take it that you assume the intended victim died as planned?’

‘I’ve given it a lot of thought and, really, in the end, I’m wondering why anyone would want to kill me. Madeleine, perhaps – they can’t stand her – but me? I’m just a flying chauffeur. Not important. But Prithvi – coming so soon after Bishan and in the context of the ruler’s terminal illness . . . You’d say there was a pattern to it even Dr Watson might spot, wouldn’t you?’

‘Tell me how Prithvi came to be at the controls. How did the switch occur?’

‘We’d planned the reception display flight a couple of days back when Claude told us you were coming. Everyone knew about it. I was tempted to sell tickets! You may be wondering,’ he said with a wry smile, ‘how you come to merit such a salute?’

‘It had crossed my mind that Edgar and I aren’t exactly in the same league as the Prince of Wales!’

‘Boredom! Day follows day out here and they’re all the same. Hot, uncomfortable, predictable. You’ll do anything to break the routine and if a half-way decent excuse for taking off and stunting about for a while presents itself, you take it.’

‘Glad to oblige,’ said Joe drily.

‘It was a diversion, a distraction, an exercise. We worked on it together but it was always going to be my flight. So, figure my surprise, when, leaving my quarters to head for the hangar, I saw the Jenny taking off. A good five minutes ahead of schedule. I hurried over and grabbed Ahmed and asked him what the hell was going on. Well, you can question him yourself if you want to . . . He said Prithvi came over all geared up for a flight and told him he’d decided to take the Jenny up himself. You don’t argue with the heir to the throne so Ahmed spun the propeller and sent him on his way . . . with an unwanted passenger aboard.’

Stuart fell silent, fighting down a shudder. His horror was felt by Joe who remembered the cartoon that had passed from hand to hand along the front line: a young aviator, jaw jutting into the air stream, going gallantly forward unconscious of the grey-shrouded figure he carried in the passenger seat.

‘Death,’ murmured Joe.

Stuart didn’t answer. He was reliving, Joe supposed, the vital five minutes that had separated him from a premature and inexplicable death.

‘And this Ali had every opportunity before the fatal flight to cut the wires?’

‘Oh, yes. Anyone observing him, myself included, wouldn’t have suspected a thing. To all appearances, he would just have been carrying out routine checks and refurbishment. That’s how I’d have done it . . .’ Stuart said, brow creased in thought. ‘Yes. I’d have brought out a set of pre-cut elevator cables and fitted them in place of the existing ones. Then no one gets to hear a saw hacking away at wires just before a flight. He could have done his preparation work well away from the plane in the workshop at any time that suited him.’

He frowned again and watched Ahmed who was working on the engine of the Jenny.

‘Common sense tells me, Joe, that Ali cut those wires but that’s kinda hard for me to believe.’

‘You think Ali was loyal to you?’

‘Not to me. No. Nothing personal. But – we found this in the war – the air crew, the fitters and the riggers, identified with the plane they were supporting. The pilot was part of the package, like the wings or the engine. I’ve had many a bollocking from my crew when I came back to base with a damaged plane. It would go against every instinct for one of these guys to deliberately destroy his pilot and his plane. He wouldn’t have killed me. And if the pilot also happened to be his future ruler, well . . .’

‘You’re saying that you don’t think Ali did it at all but that if he did do it, an overwhelming pressure must have been put on the poor chap?’

‘Doesn’t make sense, does it, but that’s about as close as I can get.’

‘Any idea where our vital witness might have gone?’

‘Sure. We’ve got ideas. Ahmed thinks he must have returned to his village. That’s a day’s camel ride from here if you want to go check. He’s probably just arriving.’

‘You think that would be a waste of time?’

‘I do!’ Stuart put his cup down carefully and squinted into the sunshine, checking that they were not overheard. ‘I think Ali is at the bottom of the lake.’

‘You’re saying he’s joined the ranks of the surplus-torequirements assassins – like the men who supplied the panther that killed Bishan Singh?’

‘Yeah. That sure was one unlucky black cat,’ said Stuart bleakly.

‘This village to which Ali may have fled – what’s its name?’ Joe asked.

‘Mmm . . . let me think . . . Surigargh! That’s it. Surigargh.’

‘I’ve heard of that somewhere,’ said Joe. ‘Isn’t it the maharaja’s own native village?’

‘So they say.’ Stuart fell silent for a moment, eyeing Joe with speculation.

‘And a whole day’s camel ride away, you said?’

The two men looked at each other and grinned.

‘Thought you’d never get around to asking,’ said Stuart. ‘Plane’s ready. Be delighted to take you up. The Jenny can reduce a day to a half-hour there and a half-hour back.’ He looked at his watch. ‘We could be back in time for tiffin or luncheon if you prefer. We could even land if you want to go in and lean on the headman. There’s a stretch of roadway we can use.’

Joe watched as Stuart gave a surprised Ahmed instructions in Hindi. Ahmed was putting a few finishing touches to the aircraft, spanner in hand, checking on the tightness of a screw, running a sinewy finger along the cables to test their tautness. Joe pictured his brother Ali performing just this ritual yesterday.

‘The things I do for Sir George and Merry England,’ he muttered between clenched teeth.

As they collected their flying helmets and water bottles from the hangar Stuart talked easily about his hurriedly conceived flight plan. ‘We’ll do a circuit over the town – make out that we’re a couple of airborne trippers, just sightseeing. Nothing untoward in that – everybody does it. Even HM Vyvyan made it known that, if invited, she might not be minded to decline the offer of a short spin over the kingdom!’

‘HM?’ Joe asked.

‘Her High and Mightiness!’ Stuart said cheerfully. ‘That’s what I call her! She’s everything the word “memsahib” calls to mind, aren’t I right? Ambitious, too. I think she thinks she’s in training for the position of Vicereine . . . hope someone remembered to tell poor old Claude!’

Joe was startled. ‘You’re not serious? Claude as Viceroy? I don’t see it!’

‘Not a chance, of course! The guy’s talented . . . not quite in the Curzon league – who is? – though playing the same game, I’d say. But he loses points on pedigree. You British are still overly impressed by a dukedom or an earldom and all Claude has is a father-in-law who is believed to be a baronet of some sort. Claude’s grandfather made quite a fortune for himself in trade as far as I can work out. His son promptly spent the fortune and Claude hangs on to a threadbare family estate back home in Wiltshire, working his way up the ladder of foreign politics and respectability. That’s the way he sees the world going.’

‘How do you know all this?’ Joe asked.

‘Told me once in his cups – only time I’ve ever seen him under the influence of anything but his wife.’

Stuart’s expression turned serious for a moment. ‘And who’s to say he’s wrong? The world’s changing so fast it makes me giddy! Even out here. And it’s the clever and the adaptable who’ll come out on top. Make your plans, Joe! I have!’

Before they came within earshot of the patient Ahmed who stood at the ready, hand on the propeller, Joe asked, ‘This Surigargh. You were saying, the native village of Udai and his brother Zalim . . .’

‘Yes. That’s so. And it’s also the home of Udai’s favourite concubine, Lal Bai, the mother of Bahadur. Lal Bai means Ruby Girl. She’s known throughout the state for her love of jewellery. Has the finest collection of rubies in the land, they say. You ought to try to meet her, Joe. They say she’s quite a woman!

Chapter Twelve

Lal Bai hurried down a dark corridor of the Old Palace, red skirt swirling, sandalled feet crunching over shards of broken jewellery. A pile of cheap glass bangles ceremonially broken in grief at the death of the Yuvaraj annoyed her and, impatient, she kicked them out of her way. Gewgaws! Her own jewels were safely hidden away in the toshakhana and there was no chance that she would be expected to sacrifice them according to custom. Lal Bai lived and survived by her own rules.

Why should the women of the zenana give up their pretty things in honour of a man who never visited them? They’d had little time, in any case, to restock their trinket boxes after the funeral of the first son. And Prithvi was not popular. That Angrez wife of his had kept him well away from the harem and even his mad old mother complained she had hardly seen her son since his marriage.

Now his body was being prepared for the burning ghat by the bai-bands. Before the sun set the Jats would carry the bier to the pyre of sandalwood. They would kindle the flames and feed them with cotton oil and camphor and remain in attendance at the samshan until the fire had burned itself out. Then they would remove what was left of the body and throw it into the river. Lal Bai pictured the scene in all its satisfying detail. Prithvi Singh would go to join his brother. Lal Bai smiled in triumph, hastily flicking the tail of her dopatta over her face. So near her goal she could risk no report of disloyal conduct. There were eyes everywhere in this maze and not all were dimmed by tears. She could imagine the relish disguised by false regret in the voice of a treacherous eunuch as he gained audience with the ruler: ‘How it pains me, hukham, to speak of such a matter – and you will tear out my tongue if it runs away with me – but on the very day of the funeral of the Yuvaraj, your servant Lal Bai was observed laughing and dancing in the palace . . .’

She bowed her head and went on her way. Her behaviour had been correct and in accordance with her low status. She had crept in to look at the corpse, had scattered rice and marigolds over it and had even thrown in a token glass bangle or two. The room where the body was displayed was hot and uncomfortably full of women weeping and ululating. Musicians beat out a sombre hymn for the dead, drugged heads nodding in time with the insistent, repeated tune. All the palace women had passed through except for his wife. The widow should even now be cutting off her hair, putting on black clothes and preparing to retreat into an obscure room in a distant part of the palace where she would eat meatless dishes from tin thali for the rest of her life – if anyone remembered to feed her. But where was the Angrez?

Going to parties in the Old Palace with the rest of the unclean. Sharing the bed of the latest ferenghi to arrive. A spasm of hatred made her slim shoulders quiver. She would never be able to understand the tastes of these foreigners who were made so welcome at the palace. This tall dark one with the gaze like a lance and the body of a Rajput, the police-sahib whose arrival she had observed through a slatted window, had rejected the attentions of Padmini. Well-named Padmini – the Lotus, the girl she had herself trained in the arts of pleasure. Zalim had been angry but Lal Bai had defended the girl. If the foreigner preferred the company of a drunken white whore to that of the most talented girl in the kingdom he was not worth their attention. They could discount him.

And the she-camel who had spent the night in his room – what was she to make of her? While the body of her husband grew cold and stiff. Shameless whore! Unholy! Lal Bai resolved to speak to Udai Singh about this behaviour as soon as she saw him again. And, after the mourning was over, she was sure she would see him again.

She was the mother of his one remaining son, after all – a girl of fifteen when Bahadur was born. Not a wife but worthy of consideration. And still worthy of his attention. Lal Bai was well aware that she remained youthful and as beautiful as any Padmini. Surely now he would see that he was wasting his time – his precious remaining time – with that gawky girl who was neither truly Hindu nor truly Angrez. The girl had no breasts, no swelling hips, and Lal Bai had laughed discreetly when a palace guard had said that the only thing Third Her Highness liked to feel between her thighs was a polo pony.

Lal Bai pattered on, enjoying the cool of the northern verandah. She had come far from her apartment on the eastern side of the zenana but there was something she was eager to see before she returned to perform puja. She had dismissed her attendant, Chichi Bai, to prepare the incense and offerings for her morning ceremony. She would make puja on this day with gratitude to her family goddess. Mahakali was due her praise. Lal Bai’s prayers had been answered and now there were no more obstacles to the fulfilment of the prophecy. Soon after the birth of Bahadur, she had paid many rupees to the fortune teller and she had every day repeated every precious word he had said to her. ‘The ruler will be succeeded by his third son. But that third son will be the last ruler.’

The second part of the prophecy sounded alarming but Lal Bai had put it out of her mind. So long as the first part came to pass – that was all that mattered. She had kept it to herself, fearful of arousing jealousy, but for years she had watched the ruler’s wives for signs of a late miraculous pregnancy, fearing that one of them might produce a third legitimate heir. She had bribed the maharanees’ maids to bring her news each month that all was well and, with time and nature, the threat had died out. But then Udai had married a third wife. A young wife with many child-bearing years before her.

Lal Bai had been distraught. Left alone in her quarters in the zenana while her lord spent his time with his new bride, she had passed her hours in strenuous prayer and it seemed the goddess had listened to her pleading and granted her request. Month followed month and no announcement of a forthcoming royal birth was made.

And now the first two sons were gone and her lord was growing weaker each day. Surely soon he would announce his successor? Why was he delaying? It was fitting that Bahadur should become maharaja. He had been reared with that intention. Always his father’s favourite, he had been quick to learn the tasks his father had set him. He had learned languages and manners from foreign tutors, he had accompanied the maharaja on his tours of the villages learning the workings of law and taxation as well as farming and irrigation. He had learned the traditional warrior skills of a Rajput prince. It had been obvious to everyone – perhaps too obvious – that Udai favoured Bahadur and Lal Bai had had to work hard behind the scenes in the zenana, paying out many rupees to informers to ensure her son’s safety. And more than rupees. She had given away many of her much-loved rubies to buy his safety but the sacrifices, the scheming, the plotting against his enemies had brought success.

Now she was to have her reward. With Bahadur on the gaddi, even though it would be six more years before he would rule alone, she would be secure. The maharaja’s mother commanded respect, whoever she was. Her son was twelve years old, after all. He had reached the age of the warrior. Time for Lal Bai to ease her vigilance. Time for Bahadur to repay his debt.

She rounded a corner with anticipation and stopped to stare, shielding her face from sight with a fold of her silken scarf. She was aware that her expression of envious longing would not be misinterpreted by any onlooker. Her slight body quivered with the intensity of her desire as she gazed. At her feet lay a swathe of gardens laid out in patterns as complex as the richest embroidery, a representation in flower and shrub of the four rivers of Paradise, but Lal Bai’s paradise was further off and of this world. She was looking beyond the garden, to the shore of the lake where, sheltered by the dark green canopy of a grove of neem trees, the white marble columns of an elegant small pavilion rose up, seemingly from the water itself. Balconied windows with fretted white screens overhung the lake. Lal Bai pictured herself there, breathing in the cool air rising off the water, watching the animals that crept down to drink at sunset, summoning with a clap of her hands her evening meal served on a gold thal.

Bahadur would give her the pavilion.

Lal Bai’s single exposed dark eye narrowed with determination. Yes, the Maharaja Bahadur would give his mother the pavilion.

When it had been cleansed of the presence of the widow, Shubhada.