Текст книги "The Palace Tiger"

Автор книги: Barbara Cleverly

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Текущая страница: 9 (всего у книги 19 страниц)

Chapter Thirteen

‘Now – I’m your maiden aunt, venturing on a motor car ride for the first time. Just bear that in mind, will you?’ said Joe, preparing to climb into the forward passenger seat.

Stuart affected astonishment. ‘Naw! Don’t tell me you’re a flying virgin?’

‘Not quite that. I’ve been up a few times,’ said Joe with a grin. ‘But I should warn you that I had kedgeree for breakfast. And – I don’t need to remind you – you’re downwind of me!’

After the heart-stopping moment when the light craft tore itself away from the earth they sailed easily upwards. Joe cleared the dust stirred up by their take-off out of his nose and mouth, getting used to the noise of the engine, and began to settle into the flight. Soon he felt bold enough to lean over and take a look at the country below him. They flew straight and level for a while, building Joe’s confidence, then circled lazily over the unnaturally silent town surrounding the palace. The only activity Joe could see was taking place on the riverbank and he guessed this to be the burning ghat where the funeral pyre was being prepared.

From this height he suddenly saw that there were two Ranipurs. The ancient city and a modern one. Around the Old and New Palaces clustered a labyrinth of crooked streets which terminated in a large market place. High walls surrounding the old buildings were a clear demarcation between the old and the new. The new city was spread with lavish disregard for space over the plain beyond the river. Built on a grid system with wide avenues, it sprawled towards the desert, its uniform dull red sandstone building blocks relieved by patches of green turf and parks boasting artificial lakes, now, at the height of summer, very depleted. What could be the function of these apparently deserted buildings? Joe saw no signs of life in or around what he took to be public buildings – a school, a hospital perhaps. To the north a road set out boldly towards the desert but stopped after two miles, heaps of building material abandoned on either side of the road.

Their circles grew wider and Joe noted that there were no camel trains, no traffic of any kind making its way across the desert. Everyone was apparently obeying the mourning custom of staying within the city limits but, of course, Ali, with his inside knowledge, would have left early the previous day and had had time to fetch up in Surigargh already.

It was a shock to Joe to see clearly from this height how slender and fragile was the fringe of green crop land surrounding the city. From up here it seemed that the desert was laying siege to Ranipur, and even allowing for the fact that this was the dry season and the yearly monsoon rains could not be expected for another month or two, the desert, he would have said, had won. It spread, rippling below them into the far distance, the khaki wastes criss-crossed by silvery animal-trodden tracks. The Aravalli hills to the west stood, a barrier to the encroaching miles of fluid sand, but even they were under pressure. Great seas of sand had flooded through every gap in the hills, blown through by the winds wherever they found no obstacle.

The rivers and streams which must have poured from the hills into the kingdom in the wet season were no more than dry trackways marked along their length by the occasional well and punctuated by small settlements of round straw-topped herdsmen’s huts.

After half an hour of straight flight, Joe began to notice camel trains making their way south towards Ranipur and calculated that they must be approaching their objective. A few minutes more and he had his first glimpse of Surigargh. The four white minarets of a well caught his eye, the polished lime announcing the presence of water from a great distance. Other evidences of precious water came into view, the dull gleam of a reservoir hidden beneath a magnificent stone structure ornamented with arches and domes, flights of steps leading down on four sides to the water far below.

To his surprise this was no collection of mud huts. It had all the appearance of a fortified town. Stuart poked him in the back and jabbed a finger down to starboard. Joe noted the stone wall snaking its way up a ridge to a small fort with gun emplacements. As they flew over the town Joe guessed that there must be over a thousand houses, and huddled in the centre were one or two large buildings whose purpose puzzled him. From overhead they looked as substantial and as ugly as the fortress at Verdun. One or two were built around a single square, the largest and most central had four squares. Again Stuart indicated that this was of interest and yelled something unintelligible in his ear.

They circled round and prepared for landing. The landing strip Stuart had chosen was a stretch of unfinished tarmacked road which set out hopefully from the town and then finished abruptly, swallowed up into the sand about ten miles off. As they touched down, the plane taxied to a juddering halt and was instantly surrounded by a crowd of young boys, laughing, shouting and jostling to get close. Stuart leaped out, scanning the crowd, and shouted something in Hindi. They retreated a few inches and one stepped forward. He seemed to be known to Stuart and, with much nodding of heads and a quick exchange of cash from hand to hand, it appeared that a protection squad was in operation to keep an eye on the plane. Joe guessed it was not the first time they had done this.

Joe climbed with all the dignity he could muster from the plane and joined Stuart on the short stroll up the dusty road into the town.

‘Well, you can’t sneak in unnoticed in a plane,’ said Stuart. ‘The whole town knows we’ve arrived.’

People called out greetings from all sides, bands of small boys followed, chirruping, at their heels. They had to move carefully to avoid the equally inquisitive cows which wandered along the street, protected by their sanctity and free to nibble, unchallenged, at whatever took their fancy: succulent green vegetables at a market stall or the pith helmet of a visiting ferenghi. Troops of dark grey bristling pigs rooted in the dry monsoon ditches on either side of the road, recycling the town’s refuse, Joe supposed. Children lined up on platforms jutting out over the ditches, small brown bodies glistening as their older sisters sparingly poured water over them from copper jugs. Old men squatted in the shade of trees drinking tea and gaming, shrewd eyes following the two strangers as they walked on and up into the centre of the town.

In a tree-lined square Joe and Stuart found themselves ambushed by a crowd of young boys anxious to direct their attention to one of their fellows who was preparing with the sole aid of a battered attaché case to put on a magic show for the strangers.

To Joe’s surprise, Stuart stopped and indicated that he was prepared to watch the show. ‘We artistes,’ he grinned, ‘have to stick together. They’re good, these kids. I’ve never managed to work out how they do what they do. Take a look.’

They watched in delighted astonishment as the ten-yearold prestidigitator performed trick after trick with a running commentary in a mixture of Hindi and English. Small brown hands flashed mesmerizingly, performing impossible feats with the simple props of a few polished stones, copper cups, two red-painted metal balls and a greasy pack of cards. At each magical disappearance of an object they had thought was clearly in their view the child would cry out in triumph, ‘Where’s it? Gone to Delhi!’

The culmination of his act came with the vanishing of the two red balls from an upturned cup and the subsequent mysterious reappearance of the balls from Joe’s crotch, tinkling into the cup the conjuror held up between his legs. Joe put on a show of horror followed by relief to find, on mimed investigation, that his own balls had not gone to Delhi. The audience were delighted and even more delighted when an over-large tip had them all shooting off to the nearest sweetmeat stall.

Still smiling with pleasure, Joe waited until they had run off before turning to Stuart. ‘Look, Stuart, I have to tell you, the last person I’m expecting to see here is Ali,’ he admitted. ‘I’m glad I came but in fact I’m not quite sure what brought us here . . . Curiosity, I suppose . . . It felt right to fill in a bit of background on the maharaja . . . The whole problem seems to stem from the succession and this is where it all started.’

Stuart grinned. ‘Your instinct’s probably right. This whole nasty business is driven by one question – who succeeds? Did you see the large haveli I pointed out to you? That’s where Udai was born and where his cousin, the town headman, still lives. His name’s Shardul Singh. We’ll go and say hello.’

‘Haveli, did you say?’

‘Yes. Never heard of the havelis before?’ Stuart smiled smugly. ‘You’re in for a treat! They are rather special. Look, here’s a small one coming up on the right.’

The buildings which had appeared block-like and drab from the air were enchanting when seen at street level. Joe stopped and stared in wonder at his first sight of one of the decorated merchants’ houses that lined the main street of the town. They presented strong walls punctuated only by rows of small fretted windows and, Joe guessed, were aired and cooled by the internal courtyards he had spotted from the plane. But it was the wall decorations which stunned. As though to counteract the bleak surroundings, the painters had covered the walls with brilliantly coloured frescoes. Joe laughed to see caparisoned elephants in procession, rearing battle-ready horses, hunting scenes, prowling tigers, flowers and birds, even files of red-coated British soldiers and a childlike impression of a train.

Stuart pointed out the most interesting scenes as they walked up the crowded main street, the houses and the standard of painting growing ever more impressive. Joe paused in front of a spectacular display of artistry in a limited palette of red, brown and green, admiring the intricate floral arches outlining two Rajput warriors mounted on gaily decorated steeds. On either side of the main image were smaller pictures of Rajput women. One played with a yoyo, another held a musical instrument, a third, skirts aswirl, ran with bow and arrow and a determined expression, and a fourth, veiled this one, peered from behind her ghungat, fixing the observer with one bright dark eye, ankles and wrists heavy with jewels.

‘Here – what do you make of this?’ Joe asked, his attention caught by a linear pattern of red handprints running along the bottom of the wall. ‘It doesn’t seem to chime with the rest of the decoration?’

‘Thapas,’ said Stuart. ‘No, a false note if ever there was one.’ He shuffled his foot uncomfortably on the sandy road. ‘It’s symbolic of the practice of sati. All the widows of the head of the house used to go to the pyre with their dead lord. And his concubines as well. Most went willingly – it was a matter of pride and honour and an outward show of the love they bore for him. But I suppose you know all this? On their way to the fire they dip their right hand into red ochre and leave a print on the wall of the house.’

Joe looked in distress at the line of prints, some no more than child-sized, and stammered, ‘But there must be . . .?’

‘Never tried to count them. They go all the way around.’

Joe looked more closely. The line of prints was fading progressively as it stretched away but the last two or three seemed to him suspiciously fresh. He shared his suspicions with Stuart.

‘It goes on,’ said Stuart wearily. ‘The British outlawed it a hundred years ago but you can’t be everywhere. The last of these prints was put there three years ago, I’m told. But come on, let’s go in, shall we? This is the headman’s house. The house where Udai was born. They’ll be expecting us.’

‘Amal khaya, sahib?’

‘What’s he saying?’ asked Joe.

‘He’s asking if you’ve had your opium today. He’ll provide if you haven’t had time for it yet this morning,’ said Stuart.

Joe managed to find the right words in Hindi to say thank you but refuse the traditional stimulant. His host, Shardul Singh, waved away the hookah, smiled and asked for tea and pastries to be brought instead. They were seated barefoot and cross-legged on white cotton-covered mattresses laid on the cool marble floor of a verandah overlooking a courtyard filled with flowers and fruit trees. Joe wondered briefly how many buckets of water had to be carried here each day to maintain this profusion. Shardul was simply dressed in white dhoti and kurta with a yellow turban and surrounded by similarly attired smiling men ranging from very old to young. One of the younger ones was brought forward with the explanation that his English was much better than Stuart’s Hindi and with great good humour the audience got under way.

The polite compliments flowed from both sides and it was some time before Stuart judged the moment right to introduce his business. Delicately he asked if he might speak with the chief ’s kinsman, Ali.

The enquiry was greeted with what Joe’s keen eye took to be genuine puzzlement. Heads were shaken, consultations took place and questions were asked. The conclusion was that Stuart must have been misinformed about the movements of his rigger. Ali had not returned to his home since he had left it over a year ago to work for Stuart at the palace. The men appeared politely concerned but not alarmed by the alleged disappearance of their kinsman. They were in fact more intrigued by Joe’s presence than by Ali’s absence and, it seemed to him, were impatiently waiting for some explanation of his arrival amongst them.

Stuart filled in the details of Joe’s visit to Ranipur, rather overdoing his importance, Joe thought. Friend of the Viceroy? Celebrated tiger hunter? Polo player extraordinaire? He hoped he would not be expected to demonstrate any of these alleged attributes. And now Stuart was telling them that Joe was also a scholar – a great Brahmin in his own land. He was involved in research for a study of the Shekhavati region. They had all heard of Colonel Tod who a hundred years earlier had written a history of Rajputana? Well, Joe was continuing the Colonel’s good work. Would they mind if he asked them a few questions on life amongst the Rajputs?

They didn’t mind. They were intrigued. They were voluble in their answers. Joe took out his Scotland Yard notebook and wrote down answers to questions Stuart told him he was asking. He even interposed a few of his own, and so entertained was he by the narrative energy and the delight the men took in their folk stories and the history of their tribe that he was almost caught out when Stuart slipped into the conversation a question about the Ranipur succession. He knew Joe would be very interested to hear the story of the accession of Udai Singh.

A favourite story, obviously, as everyone was eager to offer his own version or correct someone else’s. From the torrent of Hindi and English Joe teased out an intriguing tale. Udai, far from being a modest village boy, was the younger son of a well-to-do merchant but not of the royal blood. At his birth nearly half a century ago when the customary horoscope was prepared and read out, his family were stunned to hear that the baby would one day be ruler. The men remembered and recited the horoscope word for word and Stuart translated. ‘“The boy will one day be maharaja and the father of a maharaja who will see a new sun rise over Ranipur.”’

And all had gone as forecast. The old ruler had been childless and, with advancing age, and no doubt aware of the prophecy, had adopted the young Udai, taken him and his older brother to Ranipur and trained them both in the skills required to rule a kingdom. Udai had been a good ruler, they added, and had looked with favour on his native village, doing whatever he could to alleviate the tragedies that the years had brought.

Joe felt his new role of historian called on him to enquire further about the tragedies. Again the response was almost overwhelming. The seven-year drought at the turn of the century, the present drought which threatened to be just as catastrophic, the war in Europe which had killed so many of the young men who had gone off with the Ranipur Lancers, the influenza which had decimated the population, the failing of the trade routes, the unending taxes imposed by the British and the migration of the young to the cities . . . The list was long and full of pain.

As he listened with half an ear to the heartfelt, keening liturgy of loss and devastation, a terrible thought came to Joe. A thought so terrible his mind recoiled from it and he thrust it away. It returned with double force and he knew suddenly why his instinct had led him to Surigargh.

Chapter Fourteen

In the durbar hall Udai Singh heard the Jenny fly overhead and dismissed the remaining supplicants. He sent away his servants and called his brother to his side.

‘Our guests are returning, Zalim.’

‘As you suspected, Highness, they went off in the direction of Surigargh. The Englishman has a reputation for finding out the truth and a reputation for honesty. Edgar says he is all he appears to be and serves no one but the British Empire. He is Sir George’s eyes and ears, they say.’

‘But the brain, Zalim, that’s what interests me. Has he got the brain to get to the heart of our problem? We must encourage our enterprising detective. If he has been sent to observe, let him observe. Make certain that the telephone line is put always at his disposal – he will need to report back to his master. The man has standing amongst his own people, I observe, and his presence here has already made them more circumspect and calmer . . . like a herd when the shepherd returns. He has no more power than they themselves have but he carries an aura, an illusion of strength which they appear to find comforting. I should like him to stay on for a while. In the days to come there may be a danger for my son, and Bahadur tells me he likes and trusts this man. So be it. Let the policeman be an unofficial bodyguard for the child. Offer him distractions . . . Though not women if the reports are to be believed!’

‘He may have rejected Padmini, Highness, but he did not spend the night alone.’

Udai Singh raised an eyebrow.

‘The American. Your daughter-in-law . . .’

No one but his brother would have risked passing on this piece of information to the ruler. Udai’s reaction was explosive.

‘No longer my daughter-in-law!’ spat Udai Singh. ‘If, indeed, she ever was! The woman is doubly unclean – a foreigner and a widow. He might as well lie with a road-mender! But they are foreign, casteless and have their own habits.’

‘I am informed, Highness, that nothing other than conversation took place between them. It is possible that the American merely took shelter with him.’

‘Perhaps his tastes lie in other directions? Find out what we can offer him. But sport – that is certain to divert him. We must get the tiger hunt under way and as soon as possible. But, for now, the time has come. Send for the detective and for Edgar. I wish them to attend me here in half an hour. Send also for the scribe in case we need his services for an adjustment to the script and we’d better have the Resident though he is well aware of what I propose. I’ll perform this ceremony from the gaddi.’

He turned and walked slowly away, leaving the Dewan to clap his hands and issue commands to the flock of servants who were instantly in attendance.

Edgar and a palace khitmutgar were waiting for Joe as he made his way back to the New Palace. Edgar was not in a welcoming mood.

‘Where the hell have you been, Sandilands? Galloping all over the sky today of all days? Looks a bit disrespectful, wouldn’t you say? And sending that girl back last night? What the deuce was that all about? She’s not some dolly in a box on approval from Hamleys, you know!’

‘Just sticking to the unwritten rule of the Raj, Edgar,’ said Joe patiently. ‘The sahib never accepts a bribe.’

‘Unless it’s one of the three f ’s, remember – flowers, fruit or a –’

‘Yes, thank you for the reminder! But I don’t need it.’

‘You could have caused offence. In fact, you’ve blotted your copybook twice already and you’ve only been here a few hours. Now listen! The ruler wants to see us both. Straight away. Probably going to give us our marching orders and who will blame him? So comb your hair and follow me.’

They walked along to the throne room, large and splendid and built to accommodate a thousand people. When they entered it was occupied by only five. The ruler sat in splendour on his red velvet gaddi, raised up on a silver base, his head protected by a golden umbrella held by a bearer. A wrinkled old man sat at the foot of the dais, ink pot and pen to hand. Zalim Singh stood at his brother’s right hand. Claude hovered discreetly in the background.

‘Gentlemen! Good morning! Delighted you are able to spare me a few moments. Wouldn’t impose but I have to ask your assistance with an affair of state. It’s very simple. I would like you to append your signatures to these documents.’

Udai held up two parchments decorated with several seals and many calligraphic flourishes. To Joe and Edgar they looked very important indeed.

‘My will,’ said the ruler. ‘Or, more precisely, a written statement of my wishes regarding the succession. I have already agreed the content with the Resident.’ He nodded briefly in Claude’s direction and Claude looked studiously at his shiny boots. ‘And it just remains for two good men and true to attest by their signatures that they have witnessed this to be my uncoerced wish.’

He beckoned to the scribe, who took the parchments from his hand and placed them on a portable desk at the side of the room. A fountain pen was produced and all awaited the ceremonial signing.

‘I say, sir,’ Joe protested, a prey to sudden misgiving, ‘surely this should be witnessed by dignitaries of Ranipur and not by two passing condottieri? Are there not some trustworthy court officials of ancient lineage on hand?’ he finished with a deprecatory smile to soften his gauche interjection.

‘Trustworthy court officials?’ said Udai, returning his smile. ‘Contradiction in terms, there, Sandilands. And witnesses have been known to disappear, have their minds changed, even end up floating in the lake. We’ve made two copies of this and you’re going to take one away with you. You may read it – indeed, I feel you should,’ said Udai helpfully as they went over to the desk.

Edgar snatched up the pen and, briefly scanning the document, signed without delay in the spaces the scribe indicated but Joe took a few moments to absorb the contents of the will.

No surprises here. Bahadur, the natural son of Udai Singh, was to become ruler on the death of his father and two regents were named to govern until the boy reached the age of eighteen.

Joe looked with interest at the names: Claude Vyvyan and Her Highness, the Maharanee Shubhada.

Joe signed and the scribe carefully rolled up the documents and wrapped each around with a swatch of red velvet. One he handed to the ruler and the other to Joe.

‘Quite a business,’ commented Udai. ‘And you will not be deceived, I know! This little performance is put on for the eyes of the British Empire. My own state and subjects are not so demanding and the succession is announced more simply. This evening my son, Bahadur, will eat from my plate at a public meal and, by this act, be recognized by all as my heir. Now that’s out of the way, why don’t we all go out on to the terrace and have a celebratory drink?’

They looked politely aside as Zalim helped his brother to rise from the gaddi and make his painful way out of the room, leaning heavily on his shoulder. Joe lagged behind, uncertain and disturbed. There was something about the composition of the will, just one small detail, that had struck him as odd. The date, 16th June, had been written into both copies in ink of a slightly different colour from the original. Stephens blue-black instead of Stephens black.

On an impulse, Joe approached the old scribe and began to help him fold up his writing table. He eyed the man surreptitiously. Obviously the man wrote in English but did he speak the language? How would he react to being asked a question? Oh, what the hell! Joe decided to take a chance on low English cunning and Indian eagerness to please. ‘How good is your memory, I wonder, sir?’ he said with a wide and friendly smile. ‘Can you remember the exact day in April the ruler asked you to draw up this document?’

‘Certainly I can remember!’ said the old man proudly. ‘It was the third day of April.’

Chillingly, his shot in the dark had produced an innocent piece of information which shored up the fantastical theory he’d been building since his visit to Surigargh. His first reaction was to get hold of Edgar and lay out his ideas but he suppressed it. He would never be entirely sure of Edgar.

Edgar was waiting for him in the corridor. ‘Now what are you up to? Not a good idea to be seen fraternizing with the lower degrees, Sandilands. Just keep your mind on the job in hand, will you? Remember you’re due to telephone Sir George this evening with a progress report. You’d better have something up your sleeve. He’s not going to be impressed when you tell him you’ve spent your morning going up for a five bob flip around the countryside and hobnobbing with the natives.’

‘You’re quite right, Edgar, old man,’ said Joe equably. ‘But I shall have the news of the succession to pass on and that’s quite something! The dark horse has come in first and it just happens to be the one Sir George has his money on. That’s bound to please him . . . assuming he wasn’t already aware of the situation. He always seems to be one jump ahead of everyone else.’

‘Not so sure he’s going to like all the details,’ Edgar muttered. ‘“Woe to the land where a minor rules or a woman bears sway,” they say in Rajputana. And here, it seems, we’ve got a double dose of bad luck! Now, come on! We’re bidden to have a drink on the terrace. Better make it a quick one, if we can. I understand you have people queuing up to see you and I have a tiger shoot to plan with Colin.’

The mood and composition of the group on the terrace was subtly changed. The maharaja and his brother had been joined by a selection of courtiers, and a man in dark blue uniform with a good deal of gold frogging had stationed himself behind Udai’s right shoulder. The pop of champagne corks was echoed by a gush of congratulations. The release of tension was evident as all raised their glasses to salute the new heir, the Yuvaraj Bahadur.

All drank except for the uniformed stranger who remained at attention, motionless apart from his dark eyes which constantly moved around the group. Joe was not quite comfortable with the length of time they locked with his own. He was reminded of one of those playground staring games where the first to look away was the loser and he was relieved when the ruler called to him by name, compelling him to break off.

‘Joe. Commander Sandilands. I want you to meet your opposite number in the Ranipur force. This is Major Ajit Singh.’

No hand was extended so Joe returned the formal nod of the head.

‘Ajit is responsible for policing the state, and the very low level of crime we enjoy bears witness to the efficacy of his methods. I’m sure you’ll have much in common and much that you do not have in common. I will leave you to exchange views. Oh, by the way, I understand you visited Surigargh this morning, Commander? Ajit’s home town as well as my own.’

He moved away to speak to Claude, leaving Joe face to face with the Chief of Police.

Ajit Singh’s tall frame was held erect. A dark moustache shot through with silver rose in two smooth wings to tuck under the white turban. Every aspect of his uniform was immaculate and Joe was interested to note the whole impression was of a serious, even – for India – understated military presence. The most pernickety sergeant-major of any crack regiment could have taken lessons in turn-out from this man.

‘We will speak in English,’ said Ajit firmly.

Joe was accustomed to deep and mysterious Indian voices which made the tones of the average Englishman sound insubstantial, superficial, braying at times, but Ajit Singh’s voice was distinctive even for a Rajput. Joe thought he must gargle with a suspension of sharp-sand in honey to achieve these depths – guttural but seductive.

‘I do not speak well but I hear that you do not speak Hindi at all,’ Ajit added blandly.

Joe smiled, conceding the first point in the arm-wrestling contest into which he had been propelled. Ajit crooked a finger and from his place at the door a young officer attired in similar dark blue, though with considerably less gold about him, came respectfully threading his way through the crowd towards them.

‘Ram speaks excellent English, Sandilands, and he will help us to converse,’ Ajit explained. ‘He had his training with the Calcutta Police.’

‘Okay,’ thought Joe. ‘Two points to Ajit Singh.’

The young officer shook his hand and introduced himself briefly in flawless English, and Ajit commented, tapping the man proprietorially on the shoulder, ‘You are looking, Commander, at the next Chief of State Police. At the very least – for Ram could go further. His career, I fear, will call him to the capital where he will do well.’

They plunged into a surprisingly easy conversation. Ram was eager to pick Joe’s brain and questioned him closely on Western developments in policing methods and crime solving. Expressions of interest and astonishment greeted his outlines of the first Flying Squad and the proposals for an international police force. He was intrigued by the new techniques of ballistics which Joe was passionately pushing forward and listened intently to his ideas on the use of dual-microscope examination of cartridges.

Claude, who had approached to the fringes of the group, seemed equally impressed. ‘And you’re saying that these processes are even now available to the Calcutta Police, Sandilands?