Barbara Cleverly (8 page)

Feeling rather foolish sitting at his desk in evening gear and the promised white tie, all pressed at a moment’s notice by the palace staff, Joe found supplies of writing paper and an excellent fountain pen, already loaded with black ink, and set to work. The words flowed easily, no detail was missed and he was happy with his account. He folded it in two, slipped it into his pocket and, after a guilty look at the Cartier watch, he tucked that into his other pocket, not knowing what else to do with it and acknowledging that the security of his room was nonexistent. He pulled the bell and waited for his escort to the dining room. He had left a perfect ten minutes to spare.

While he waited he went to stand in front of the cheval glass to make a last check on his appearance. The evening suit, tailored for him in Calcutta, fitted well, the narrow, waist-long jacket flattered his slim figure and long legs. His spanking white shirt and tie emphasized a face darkened by almost a year of living an outdoor life in the sun. ‘More of this and I’ll be able to pass for a native,’ he thought, tugging at his tie. ‘But not, perhaps, with these eyes.’ Light grey was not an Indian colour. ‘Huh! Fighting elephant, indeed!’

He was confused to find himself wondering briefly what Madeleine would make of him with all the layers of dust and perspiration washed away and reminded himself guiltily that she would, of course, not be expected in any society to come down to dinner mere hours after her husband’s death.

The reassuring figure of Govind appeared in the mirror behind him. ‘The waistcoat, Govind,’ said Joe. ‘Not too fancy, I hope? What do you think?’

Govind considered for a moment. ‘Everything is perfect, sahib. Exactly what is required. Handkerchief perhaps?’

They set off, retracing their earlier steps back to the Old Palace. ‘The reception will be in the durbar room tonight,’ said Govind. His voice took on a hushed and serious tone. ‘The palace - the state - is in mourning for the young prince and this will continue for twelve days. You arrive at an unfortunate time, sahib.’

‘You must tell me how I may best avoid getting in the way,’ said Joe with concern. ‘Mark my card, Govind, and don’t let me crash about insensitively annoying people.’

‘I think the sahib has the sensitivity of an elephant.’ Govind smiled and gently nodded.

For a moment Joe was startled then he remembered that for these warriors who lived, worked and sometimes fought alongside elephants the animal was revered for its intelligence and discretion. He returned the nod, recognizing the compliment.

‘The funeral ceremony will take place tomorrow afternoon at the samshan - the cremation ground - by the river. You and your fellow guests will not be involved. The palace has many distractions to put before you while we are occupied with our religious rites.’

‘I see,’ said Joe doubtfully. A situation already socially delicate now promised to be impossible. ‘Are there areas of the palace and town I should perhaps avoid?’

‘Yes, sahib. The mourning rituals will be performed in the women’s quarters where the ruler has gone to join the maharanee, the mother of his son. The zenana will be the scene of much wailing and crying out. The women will be breaking their bangles in grief over the body of the Yuvaraj and garlanding him with flowers. This afternoon’s events are most distressing but His Highness will be present to greet you and share a drink, although he is very tired and very busy as you can imagine he would be and he will not stay long. You will be able to become acquainted with the other guests, however, and enjoy an excellent meal. His Highness is concerned that you should all have a pleasant and most sociable evening.’

Joe smiled his appreciation of this piece of considerate attention. It was a sensible arrangement; he would have organized things in just the same way.

He approached the door of the durbar hall with keen anticipation. He was a sociable man and enjoyed conversation. But, above all, he was desperately hungry and hoped that the drinks party wouldn’t drag on for too long. It seemed a very long time since he’d shared a railway curry with Edgar at Umballa.

Vyvyan was waiting for him at the entrance to the durbar hall. He ran an approving eye over Joe, followed immediately by an enquiring lift of an eyebrow.

‘I have it,’ said Joe in answer. He produced his report and handed it over.

‘Good man!’ said Claude. Without giving the document a glance, he passed it to an aide who slid it into a file and moved away.

‘Most of the guests are already here so you’ve timed it well, and the ruler himself is eager to meet you. Shall we go in?’

Joe followed him through the pair of heavy sandalwood doors, lined with ivory and held open by two servants, and he stood for a moment, stunned by the glittering scene before him.

‘Like stepping into a Dulac illustration from The Arabian Nights, I always think,’ whispered Claude, entertained by Joe’s reaction.

The large meeting room was long and low and not a square inch of surface, it seemed, was without rich decoration. Fluted pillars, encrusted with coloured stones in a complex floral design, held up a ceiling shining with mica and gold leaf. The long walls were pierced by arched doorways and the intervals between were covered in expanses of mirror glass. Even the floor shone and Joe, coming out of his trance and moving forward, set a careful foot down, mindful that his evening shoes were new, the leather soles still slippery, and was grateful to reach a thick amber carpet in the centre of the room. Two crystal chandeliers, Lalique, he guessed, and ranks of white candles set on low tables in the corners of the room provided the lighting; flickering flames reflected off a thousand shining surfaces.

In contrast to the brilliant setting, the guests were a sombre group in black and white. Soberly clad in deference to the recently bereaved, they had gathered at the far end of the room. At Joe’s entrance all stopped talking and turned to look at him. One of the men, wearing evening dress improbably topped off with a white silk turban in which winked a diamond aiguilette, came forward to greet him. He was leaning heavily on an ebony stick and, although a tall and well-made man, was obviously not in good health. His features could have been carved from aged ivory, the skin drawn tight over bones almost visible beneath diminished flesh. His dark eyes, however, remained full of life and were taking in his guest’s appearance as he approached.

Claude, at Joe’s elbow, hurried to make the introduction. ‘Your Highness, may I present Commander Joseph Sandilands?’

Maharaja Udai Singh smiled and nodded but, Joe noticed, did not go in for handshaking.

‘We are delighted, Commander, that you can be with us at such a difficult time. I understand that you have offered your valuable services and expertise to look into my son’s death which you were so unfortunate as to witness this afternoon.’

Joe found Indian voices attractive and musical but, even by Indian standards, this voice was remarkable. It was deep and liquid but the formal phrases were lifeless - formulae concealing despair and pain. His speech had the quality of the heart-rending adagio of a cello concerto Joe had heard at the Queen’s Hall the year after the war’s end. Edward Elgar’s, he remembered, and the composer himself had conducted. Joe had listened, tears in his eyes, as the music spoke to him of loss, regret and devastation. Udai Singh’s voice resonated with the same emotions.

Joe bowed. ‘It will be an honour, Your Highness, though a most unwelcome task,’ he replied with equal formality.

‘It is my wish that the cloud of grief which hangs over the palace should not be burdensome for our guests. You are not of our religion, tribe or culture and will play no part in our mourning. I am conscious that, as bereaved father, my attentions will be elsewhere for the coming days but you are my guests and will not be neglected. The palace is large and can accommodate both the sorrow we are feeling and the pleasure you may have been anticipating.’

Then, with a change of key, ‘Let that be our last mention of today’s events. Come and meet your fellow guests who ought to be able to put a few distractions your way during your stay. I cannot introduce you to your hostess because my wife, Shubhada, has yet to arrive. Are you married, Sandilands?’ He smiled enquiringly at Joe. ‘No? Well, a word of warning for when you are - for every pair of earrings you give her, she will hesitate a further ten minutes when dressing. So, the next senior lady

Mrs Vyvyan! Lois!’

He addressed an Englishwoman who had detached herself from the group and was looking attentively in their direction.

Well, this was a surprise! Joe had not realized that Vyvyan was married but, shaking Mrs Vyvyan’s gloved hand, he decided she would have been easy to pick out as his consort in spite of the difference in their ages. Unusually, Lois Vyvyan appeared to be a year or two older than her husband. She was wearing a long black dress, a silken shawl covering her shoulders, and round her throat was a double row of pearls. Her skin was milky white and her dark auburn hair was swept up behind her ears in a twisted knot. Spare, elegant, proper, was Joe’s first impression, and very English. He was surprised, therefore, when she leaned confidentially towards him and he caught a scent of something oriental and seductive on her warm neck. Shalimar? He thought so.

‘Commander, we are all so delighted you could come,’ she said in an attractive voice which managed somehow to give an impression of cool distance. ‘Your reputation goes before you and we will all expect to be entertained by stories of your exploits on the North-West Frontier to say nothing of Whitechapel. I’ve never met a detective before. Do you drink pink champagne?’

With an effort Joe stopped himself from looking down to check that he’d wiped his police issue boots on the scullery mat. He thought of replying that a jar of ale would slip down a treat if it was all the same to ’er Ladyship but controlled himself. Smiling his most devastating smile he accepted a glass of champagne from a footman and looked at it critically. ‘In the absence of Krug ’15 a glass of pink fizz will be most welcome,’ he said easily and instantly regretted his pettiness. To his embarrassment, Udai Singh had overheard his set-down but, to his relief, a thin amused smile appeared on the lips of the ruler. ‘My preference also,’ he said. ‘I’m sure our cellar can supply?’ Without a further word, the attendant moved away, Joe was sure, to pass the unspoken instruction down the line.

‘As for Lois, this is a new experience for me also,’ Udai went on smoothly. ‘I don’t believe there’s any such thing as a detective in India. Though I understand there is a police force in Bengal and some of the other British Indian states. Perhaps during your stay with us you will encourage us to look into the possibility of establishing such a force? You must meet the captain of my guard. We have what you would probably consider a rather rudimentary squad which keeps the peace in Ranipur. I’m sure Major Ajit Singh will be intrigued to learn the Western arts of anthropometry and fingerprinting.’

‘Western? I understand, Your Highness, that fingerprinting originated in India. And, indeed, it has been practised by the Bengal Police - along with a system of anthropometry adapted from the Bertillon method - for the last thirty years. They were fingerprinting and recording criminals in Bengal two years before Scotland Yard got around to it, sir.’

The maharaja smiled. ‘You will have to work hard to convince Major Ajit Singh that there is anything to be gained by keeping an imprint of a thief’s left thumb on a card in a filing system, locked away in an office, Commander. If Ajit knows a man to be guilty, that man will lose his fingerprints down to his wrist. The problems of identification, punishment and crime prevention will be solved

’ He paused and added slyly, ‘

at a stroke.’

Joe knew when he was being baited and smiled politely.

‘I suppose, Commander, you’re a blend of wise man, soldier and executioner?’

‘Not the last, I hope, sir!’

‘But a man of action, I hear. Edgar speaks highly of you. Ah, now here’s another man of action - Colin O’Connor, tiger hunter, naturalist, my oldest friend. And Edgar’s mentor. Did you know that? Colin taught him all that he knows - about hunting, that is! Colin! Come and meet a policeman! I’ll leave you for a moment - I must greet Sir Hector who, I see, has just come in.’

Colin O’Connor, a gaunt middle-aged man, took Joe’s hand in a sinewy grip. His evening suit was a good one but much worn and faded. His lined face was deeply tanned, his brown eyes under bushy grey brows were searching and humorous. ‘How do you do, Sandilands? I understand you’re to be my next pupil?’

‘What has Edgar been telling you?’ said Joe. ‘No, really, I must ask you to disregard anything he has said. I have no ambition to kill a tiger though I would very much like to see some. A day’s stalking, perhaps?’

Colin O’Connor laughed. ‘This is not red deer country, Sandilands! In the forest, the tiger stalks you. But I’m glad to hear what you say. I am, in fact, a reformed tiger hunter. It’s a wonderful creature, Sandilands, perhaps the handsomest God designed, but the numbers are so reduced that I fear that by the end of the century there’ll be none remaining. I hunt them, these days, with a camera, not a rifle.’

‘That must be dangerous?’ said Joe. ‘I don’t know much about photography but I do know that you have to approach within feet of your subject.’

‘Yes, you have to get close to the beasts and a tigress with cubs, for instance, is likely to object to my presence - if she can detect me, that is!’

‘But you’re here to kill a tiger, are you not? A renegade, I hear.’

‘Yes. A service I still perform when called on. These days I shoot only for the pot or to kill man-eaters, be they tiger or leopard. So, if the idea of pitting your wits against a creature that’s eaten over a hundred villagers, some of them children, appeals to you, join us on the hunt.’

‘In the circumstances, I’d be delighted,’ said Joe. ‘But won’t it have to be put off until the mourning period is over? I mean, it will involve local organization and supplies, local men. And wouldn’t a tiger hunt be regarded as a bit frivolous at a time like this?’