Barbara Cleverly (37 page)

A further mile out and the horses were beginning to blow when Joe heard the sound he had dreaded. A cough from the plane ahead. A splutter of protest and it began to fall from the sky.

‘Glide it down, for God’s sake!’ Joe muttered under his breath. ‘Come on! Pull the nose up, you bloody fool!’

But with an unshakeable inevitability the plane continued its downward dive. It crashed on to its nose half a mile ahead of them.

They tethered their horses and approached the wreck carefully, one from each side. They had nothing to fear from the pilot who was lying across the fuselage, neck at a deadly angle. Joe knelt by the cockpit and gently began to roll back the stocking mask, no longer alarming but pathetic. As he tugged it away, the auburn hair of Lois Vyvyan spilled out to cover her bloodstained and shattered face.

Ť ^ ť

As they rode slowly back to the town Ajit, who had been wrestling with his thoughts, finally asked, ‘Memsahib Vyvyan? But why? How?’

‘The how is more straightforward than the why, I think,’ said Joe. ‘Her father, an army officer, was also a member - a founding member, I should guess - of the Royal Flying Corps. The pioneers were mostly army men, amateurs all. He wears the insignia on his army uniform in a photograph she has. She probably learned to fly some years ago in England. She kept it quiet but had a refresher flight or two with Captain Mercer. They tell me it’s quite easy to fly one of these machines

But why? Not so easy. She was working with Claude - in fact she could have been the instigator. Think of them as a hunting pair of tigers about the palace, shall we? Disillusioned with their circumstances, fearful for their future prospects and just plain greedy. I think they were prepared to take risks to get away with a fortune and prepared to deceive others along the way.’

That was as far as he was prepared to go in the delicate matter of the involvement of the widowed Third Her Highness. He could feel no pity for the manipulative princess who had, he thought, been used by the Vyvyans. He remembered his first night at the palace and Lois Vyvyan’s behaviour. While Shubhada had sparkled at the head of the table, Lois had remained quietly in charge. Claude it was who had a reputation for thoroughness but Joe wondered how much of the reputation had been earned for him by his determined and ambitious wife. And the scent which had so intrigued him? Lois herself, he suspected, must have had the cool head to think of taking the precaution of wearing the same perfume as the girl who was intriguing with her husband. She must have been very certain of him, Joe thought. And now, too late, he could understand her behaviour towards himself. Sir George’s envoy and a London policeman at that! Suspicion and anxiety had been bubbling below the surface in all her contacts with him. Small wonder that her tone had been brittle at times.

They were hailed on their way back by Edgar riding out, accompanied by Ram.

‘Who the hell?’ Edgar wanted to know.

Joe greeted him coldly.

‘Lois. It was Lois. So, Edgar, if the krait hadn’t got him, Claude would have crashed with her in the desert. Very satisfactory outcome for His Majesty’s Government, I’m sure you’ll say.’ Edgar turned his horse and, as they rode back, knee to knee, Joe asked angrily, ‘Now perhaps you can tell me what precisely were your instructions from Sir George? Follow Sandilands, wait for him to put up the game and shoot it down?’

Edgar remained impassive. ‘Something like that. Couldn’t be doing with a bright young spark like Claude, Indian Civil Service at its best, dragged off to Delhi for a show trial. If one Resident can misbehave - how can we ever trust the others? Could ruin the career of many a good chap. Set the hives buzzing in the Chamber of Princes

which, I understand, is about to form up for a very important meeting in the near future. A very important meeting. The timing would have been most unfortunate. Political nightmare. Better this way. Satisfactory outcome.’

‘Do you think so?’ Joe could not keep the anger out of his voice. ‘From the death of Udai Singh have flowed so many other deaths.’

‘Better than the dozens it would have been some decades ago,’ said Edgar crossly. ‘And all can be accounted for in the most plausible way. Accidents do happen in India, after all. Damn dangerous place, I always say. And two of the killers were Westerners, never forget. Accounted for two heirs to the throne and that’s quite a bill to pay. Lucky we have some leverage

a few good cards in our hands. We’re fortunate also in that Zalim Singh is left at the end to pick up the pieces.’ He paused but, receiving no response or encouragement from Joe, carried on, ‘But, if it’s luck we’re talking about, I must say I’d like to know the odds on Claude’s putting his thieving hands all unexpected on a krait snake. Lurking in a jewel coffer…’

His voice was heavy with suspicion. He looked at Joe, waiting for a comment.

Joe thought of Lizzie’s avowal that she would go a long way to protect her charge, Bahadur. He remembered the trust with which the boy had gone off with the hill man, Jaswant. Would their love for the Yuvaraj extend also to revenge when he was beyond their protection? Joe thought it would.

‘Yes, wasn’t it?’ he replied. ‘Quite a piece of luck, I mean.’

Ť ^

Lai Bai was already awake when her maid came to rouse her. She crept to the window, pushing aside the curtain of khas-khas matting, and looked down on to a milky-grey landscape lit only by the sinking moon. It would be two hours before the sun’s rays poured back heat and colour into the world, two hours before the flames of her lord’s funeral pyre leapt skywards to meet and mingle with them.

She stood for a moment, feeling at one with a world drained of colour, relishing the deep stillness. Across the river a wild dog called from the desert and was answered a moment later by its mate. In two hours their calls would be unheard, swamped by the deluge of sound that would pour from the palace. There would be howling and wailing as never before; the crowds would chant, ‘Ram nam sat hai!’, The name of God is Truth!; drums would beat and the pyre at the burning ghat would be lit at the very moment the sun rose, to the accompaniment of the ruler’s last cannon salute. Nineteen times the big guns would boom out from the elephant gate. Nineteen times, for Udai had been a maharaja, a great ruler. Lai Bai resolved to count the blasts as far as she was able to count.

Chichi Bai anxiously reminded her that all was ready for her prayer ceremony but first, before puja, she must wash and dress. Silver bowls and copper vessels were laid out, filled with fragrant oils and waters, and numbly Lai Bai offered her head and then her limbs for the ritual cleaning and scented massage. That complete, she put on the bright red silk skirt her maid held out, then the tight bodice and the ganghra. One by one ivory bangles were slipped over her upper arms and gold anklets passed over her hennaed feet for today she chose to appear in the costume of a bride. Finally, Chichi Bai clasped about her mistress’s throat the most precious of her ruby necklaces.

A thread of saffron intruded into the grey shot silk of the sky. ‘It is the time,’ whispered Chichi Bai and she left her side to glide to the door. An escort of palace servants had assembled outside and formed ranks, silent but sorrowful and agitated. Her maids, in tears, withdrew and went to stand with the other women at the latticed windows. Lai Bai placed herself in the centre of the group ready to join the procession down to the river bank. Once she was safely shielded from the eyes of the interfering ferenghi, they began their funeral chant.

‘Ram! Ram!’ Lai Bai began her own chant as the cortčge moved forward.

When they reached the courtyard the little procession halted, held back for a moment by the wave of sound that met them. The whole city was assembled in the courtyard and on the staircases down to the river to pay a loud, grief-stricken farewell to Udai Singh. At the burning ghat below them, a torch-bearer stood by the pyre awaiting the body of the ruler. They watched as the bier passed through the elephant gate. Lai Bai’s eyes shone with excitement and longing as she caught her last glimpse of her lord, lying, regal, in ceremonial costume and garlanded with marigolds. All was ready.

Not quite all. There was one last ritual gesture to be observed before they could move onward. A footman moved forward holding out a pot of ochre. Without stopping her chant, Lai Bai put her right hand into the powder and withdrew it. To the accompaniment of an increasingly fervent chanting from the crowds of mourners who stood back in awe and respect for the determined slight figure, she solemnly went to the wall of the palace by the elephant gate and pressed her red right hand firmly on to the smooth white surface.

The first of the cannons crashed out its salute and Lai Bai began to count.