Barbara Cleverly (3 page)

Ť ^ ť

When Joe’s rickshaw dropped him at the Governor’s Residence a servant was smiling a welcome.

‘Sir George is in the gun room, sahib. He wonders if you could join him for a few moments before tiffin?’

‘Yes. Certainly. I’ll go straight there. Thank you, Karim.’

Nothing happened in Simla without Sir George Jardine being aware of it, very often for the simple reason that he had instigated the action. Joe guessed that he was now about to be questioned closely but with a show of casual lack of interest about the contents of Edgar’s telegram and his immediate travel plans. Joe had no doubt that Edgar was Sir George’s eyes and ears in the state of Ranipur as well as in many a darker corner of the Empire.

He swung open the heavy door to the gun room and went in, enjoying as he always did the smell of leather and gun oil and Trichinopoly cigars. Sir George was working on a gun. Its silk-lined case lay open on the central table. Joe knew that gun. The lid of the oak and leather case carried a coat of arms and in florid script the words, ‘Holland and Holland. Gun and rifle manufacturers. Bruton Street, London.’

Sir George looked up to greet him with a hearty bellow. ‘There you are, my boy! Glad to see those villains didn’t shanghai you for the afternoon. Now we haven’t much time. Remind me when you’re off

Tuesday, is it? That gives us four days to prepare.’

Joe had been amused to discover from the flyleaf of a borrowed book that the Latin motto of the Jardine family was ‘cave adsum’. The Romans hadn’t made use of punctuation but if they had, they would have needed two exclamation marks adequately to convey the flavour, he thought. The confident ‘Here I am!’ was always preceded by the warning ‘Watch out!’ Joe found it useful to bear this Highlander’s challenge in mind in his dealings with Sir George.

‘George! How the hell —’

‘Edgar never turns down an invitation to Ranipur and if there’s anything Edgar enjoys it’s involving someone else in his schemes. He was bound to ask you to go with him and I guessed you wouldn’t be able to resist. Of course you can go. I’ll square it with Sir Nevil in London. He’s aware of your achievements in India. I’ve sent him a complete report. Mentioned you in dispatches, you might say. In fact, Joe

’ George turned his attention back to the gun barrel and rubbed it thoughtfully with his cloth. ‘I ought to tell you that he’s agreed to your staying on a little longer. He’ll be quite happy if you take a boat back in time to be at your desk in September. Look, why don’t you pick up a cloth and give me a hand?’

Joe stood, silently taking in the sudden reshaping of his career, resentful of the ease with which these two old comrades, so similar in autocratic style, moved him around like a chess piece. It occurred to him that Sir George might be expressing a more than polite interest in his forthcoming trip.

‘Anyone in Ranipur you’d like me to arrest while I’m down there, by any chance?’

‘As a matter of fact, I can think of at least half a dozen who’d be better off behind bars. But, seriously, Joe, we do have a problem in the state. A problem with the succession.’

The door opened and Karim came in carrying a tray of whisky, sherry and glasses.

‘Sherry, Joe?’ George poured out a glass of sherry for Joe and a large whisky-soda for himself. ‘The situation is very uncertain. I’d like to have my own man on the ground to keep an eye on things over this next bit.’

‘But you’ve got Edgar to report back to you should there be a problem.’

George took a careful sip of his whisky. ‘Edgar may be part of the problem. He’s very attached to that old rogue, the maharaja. Soulmates you might say. I’d like to think there was a pair of sharp and unbiased eyes watching out for our interests.’

Joe found the cloth being offered to him and with reverence took the gun from Sir George. He stroked the oiled, finely grained French walnut stock and admired the richly engraved steel. Automatically he tested the balance of the gun then held it to his shoulder and squinted along the barrel.

‘This isn’t a weapon! It’s a work of art,’ he murmured.

‘It’s both, you’ll find,’ said George with satisfaction. ‘Don’t be taken in by the beauty of it. It packs a huge punch! It’s a Royal double rifle, 23-inch barrel. Quite simply the best in the world. Theodore Roosevelt took one to Africa with him and was very impressed. Wonderful for heavy, fast-moving game. Points with ease and speed and can fire two shots almost simultaneously. Great knockdown effect and it’s got a fast reload should your first two shots miss a charging buffalo.’

Joe laughed. ‘Sold! Have a dozen sent round to my suite at the Dorchester!’

George put on a pair of spectacles and eyed Joe carefully. ‘Fusilier, weren’t you? Thought I’d got that right. Put it to your shoulder again, Joe,’ he said. ‘Thought so! Could have been made for you! You know that each of these guns is made to measure? You go along to the gun shop and have more parts of your anatomy measured than they’d bother with for a suit in Savile Row. Height, chest, length of arm

and the result is an individually tailored gem. Extraordinary! You fit that gun exactly!’

‘I’ve never felt so comfortable with a gun,’ said Joe. ‘But, George, for whom was this made? Not you, I think?’ He looked speculatively at the rangy figure of Sir George, now growing a little portly but a good two inches taller than Joe and with longer arms.

‘My younger brother, Bill. It was a gift from our father on his twenty-first birthday. 1907.’ His voice took on a gruff tone and he added, ‘Killed at Ypres. He’d have been amused and pleased to see you standing there hefting it. You’re very like him. Look, Joe, take it. I mean have it. Gift from Bill. You’ll make good use of it in Ranipur and it’ll give you a certain standing amongst the shooting classes. The maharaja may have its equal (I believe he’s got Purdeys) but no one else will.’

Joe could hardly find the words to stammer his thanks. He knew there was no point in attempting a polite refusal; George Jardine said what he meant and always got his own way.

‘I shall go to Ranipur well equipped to shoot something, then, but what or whom have you in mind, George?’

‘With the rifle: tiger. There have been reports of a wounded tiger that’s developed a taste for human flesh terrorizing the villages in the north of the state. And while you’re about it, I’d like you to take that pistol over there on the rack with you. Bit more up to date than your Scotland Yard issue blunderbuss.’

Joe took down the pistol George was indicating. ‘Haven’t seen one of these before,’ he said, impressed. The weapon was small and businesslike, pared down to its stark essentials. In contrast with the rifle, there was not a curlicue, no decoration of any kind, to relieve the elegantly blunt 3˝-inch barrel surmounting a sculptured butt which housed the magazine.

‘No, you won’t have seen one of these. It’s a Browning M, this year’s model. Magazine holds eight bullets. As you see, it’s discreet and as lethal as it looks. You could slip it into the pocket of your dinner jacket and no one would be any the wiser. I thought we’d spend the afternoon popping off the guns, getting the feel of them, putting in a bit of target practice.’

‘George, are we about to start a war?’ said Joe in sudden alarm.

George considered. ‘I hope not. But there could be bloodshed. Best be prepared.’

‘You said something about the succession? Is it in doubt? Is that going to give rise to difficulties? And why now? I understood from Edgar that the prince is only in middle age. He’s just married a third wife in fact, hasn’t he?’

‘This is something even Edgar hasn’t got wind of yet. And I suppose I’d better warn him before you go off down there. Poor old Udai Singh has got cancer. He’s dying, Joe. The medics, and he’s consulted the best, give him six months at the outside. Heard of Sir Hector Munro? Former Royal Physician? Forefront of the profession. He’s staying with the prince in Ranipur for an unspecified time, treating his condition as far as he’s able and, of course, keeping us informed of the progress of the disease. The succession - and this is always at the ruler’s whim, you understand - is of considerable interest to the British. It’s usual, though not mandatory, to nominate your eldest son as heir and, last month, Udai had two sons so you would think it was straightforward. No longer.’

‘George, you’d better tell me what happened last month,’ said Joe with foreboding.

‘A disgraceful scene! The elder son died. Now what was his name? Bishan, that’s it. Any coroner would have said death by misadventure, but the circumstances were, to my mind, a bit mysterious. Oh, no loss! We assumed he was the heir and we weren’t happy with that. Chap was a sort of walking sponge. Alcohol, opium, absinthe, he took it all aboard. Not the slightest interest in anything but his own gratification and consequently a rather unpopular man, but his cause was espoused by his terrible old mother, the First Her Highness. She was twenty when she married Udai thirty-odd years ago and he was a lad of thirteen. An enterprising lad because she presented him with a son in short order. A few daughters followed but I don’t know their names; they’ve all been married off to neighbouring princes. One or two sons who died in infancy, I believe. He married a second wife years later and she too has a son. Must be in his late twenties now.’

‘So there’s no immediate problem then?’

‘Not so sure of that. Everybody heaved a sigh of relief when the elder son met his sticky end but that left number two next in line and he’s hardly any better from our point of view. A drinker like his brother - though they say reformed - but what has really annoyed his father is that he’s recently married (whilst on a trip to the States) a very unsuitable girl. An American. Dancer of some sort. Some say she’s a circus girl. Very beautiful by all accounts but a menace. Refuses to join the other ladies in the zenana and insists on having her own accommodation. Drives around in a cream roadster with scarlet trimmings, drinks too much champagne and swears like a trooper.’

‘Sounds fun!’ said Joe, unguardedly.

‘A rackety pair but - they say - devoted to each other. Prithvi has held out against all his father’s suggestions, commands even, that he marry a decent Indian girl as second wife to ensure the succession. There’s a law, you see - British law - that any children of marriages to Western girls may not inherit so Prithvi has really upset his father! Cut off the line, you might say. The pair met on an airfield, I understand. And that’s another of number two’s passions. He’s mad about flying. He’s got a plane in Ranipur and flies it, recklessly I hear, about the place. Not a good insurance risk!’

‘Is there an alternative?’

‘As it’s quite in order for the ruler to nominate whomever he likes - and never forget Udai was himself a village boy, a distant relation, when he was nominated as ruler against all the odds - there must be hundreds! He can pick and choose. Doesn’t even have to be a member of his own family. His older brother, over whose head he was promoted so to speak, is his Dewan, his prime minister I suppose you’d say. Very sound and sensible chap, Zalim Singh. Statesman. He must think he’s strongly in the running. And we would not be displeased if he were. But there is another serious contender. Had my eye on this one for some time.’

Joe waited, wondering whether he ought to be making a few notes.

George went on with relish, ‘The prince has a third son. Illegitimate. Son of one of his concubines. The lad’s only twelve years old though.’

Joe was not deceived. ‘Twelve years old? Impressionable? Malleable? In need of a highly principled regent to show him the ropes?’

‘You’ve got it! He’s bright as a button! I’ve met him. Sounded him out, you might say. Interested in science and astronomy. Good little hunter too. Shot his first leopard three years ago. Speaks good English, gets on well with Claude and that’s important. If he succeeds, as you suggest, he’ll need a regent to supervise him during the years of his minority and - who better than Claude? We were planning to send the lad to Mayo College near Jaipur next year to complete his education. Or to Eton and then Sandhurst if he wishes.’

‘So, the stable money’s on son number three. But you haven’t told me, George, what exactly happened to put number one out of the running permanently?’

George hesitated and took a large gulp of his whisky before replying. ‘You have to understand, Joe, that this is quite an, er, alien culture we’re dealing with here. Until very recently these chaps were - and I have to say still largely are - Rajput warriors. Very special breed. Hindu by religion with some Moslem attributes. Many of these Rajput tribes fought off the Moghul invaders with suicidal bravery. Some, like Udai’s mob, even managed to hang on to their independence. Tough nuts to crack! They’re very fierce, very proud, quarrelsome and quite intractable. Imagine a Scottish chieftain, if you will, but unconquered and with oodles of cash in the treasury.’

‘Not easy, but I get the idea!’

‘They put great store too by physical courage and strength. Now they can no longer show their prowess on the battlefield, they demonstrate their power through sport. Hunting, wrestling, polo, elephant fights, pig sticking, that sort of thing. You must get someone to show you the armoury while you’re down there - it’s very special. Well, it was apparently son number one’s charming habit to show his strength by wrestling with panthers.’

‘Good God! I’m surprised the heir to the throne was allowed to do that!’

‘Not quite as dangerous as it sounds. I’m unhappy to say that this chap fixed the odds. He had a black panther kept in a large cage in the palace courtyard. He’d had it declawed and its jaws sewn up. He’d go down every morning and wrestle with it to the fawning admiration of the courtiers. It was his custom to use a panther in this way and then turn it over to the elephant pens to give the beasts trampling practice.’

Joe’s mouth was a tight line of distaste but he remained silent.

George went on, his joviality fractionally strained, ‘One day, this charmer rolled out of bed, said his morning prayers, consumed his customary dose of opium to give him strength and courage and went down for his pre-breakfast wrestle. Trouble is, this time the panther won. During the night, someone had replaced the declawed panther with a fresh and very angry beast who wasn’t playing by the rules. It tore him to pieces.’