The Palace Tiger Page 15

  Joe went on to talk about the use of the Woman Police Force, which amazed and amused Ram, and the improvements in the working conditions and pay amongst the ranks, which puzzled him. ‘Here in Ranipur,’ he confided, ‘we have no need of such a large force. No one patrols the bazaars, the streets that is.’

  ‘Then how do you control petty crime?’ Joe asked.

  ‘In each street there is an informer. An unofficial, though well-rewarded, person who acts as eyes and ears for Ajit Singh. If a crime occurs, it is first discovered locally and news comes to us at once. Action is taken. The criminals are usually known in their own street and because they are certain of discovery, you can appreciate, sahib, that the incidence of crime is very low indeed.’

  ‘All very well for your average petty criminal, I suppose,’ said Joe, ‘but tell me, Ram, how would you deal with a crime committed by – oh, let’s say . . .’ He waved an arm around the assembled company. ‘. . . one of the noblemen present in this room?’

  He instantly wished he could pull back his question but, too late, the young man stammered an unintelligible reply, embarrassed and looking to Ajit Singh for support.

  Ajit spoke easily, a slight touch of amusement in his voice: ‘What Ram is trying to say is that there is no crime amongst the nobility, Commander. I’m sure you understand. When did your King George last pick a pocket? Have you arrested Queen Mary yet for poisoning her cook?’

  Joe smiled at the attempted humour and was relieved when Ajit himself changed the subject. ‘But I understand, Commander, that we find ourselves working towards the same end, here in Ranipur?’

  ‘I would be surprised to hear that,’ said Joe carefully, ‘since I am not working and would not be allowed to work, professionally that is. Pleasure only is my reason for being here.’

  Ajit’s whiskers twitched slightly. ‘Then I . . .’ He referred to Ram for help with a word. ‘. . . anticipate the ruler’s command. He has discussed with me the possibility that you might be asked to help me to keep a protective eye on the new heir, the Prince Bahadur. These are unusual times, as I think you appreciate, and this young man may be in need of our aid. He has confided to his father that he likes and trusts you. It will give him confidence to see himself protected on all sides.’

  ‘Is this protection squad a recent development?’ Joe asked.

  ‘In fact – no,’ said Ajit. ‘The boy will be unaware of it but he has been watched since he left the safety of the zenana.’

  Joe wondered just how safe the zenana might be considered in the light of Bahadur’s information but raised no question.

  ‘He has chosen to spend his time in some unusual places,’ Ajit smiled. ‘And my staff have complained about the difficulties they have experienced in staying close to him whilst remaining unobserved. But, as you see, the boy is fit and well and no attempt on his life has been uncovered.’

  Joe looked away from the magnetic eyes for a moment to hide his own expression. ‘What a pantomime!’ he thought.

  Aloud he said, ‘I shall, of course, be delighted to join you in any attempt to preserve the Prince Bahadur’s peace of mind or, indeed, his life.’

  Ajit bowed politely to his new colleague.

  ‘I was lucky enough to see the town of Surigargh this morning, Ajit Singh. I understand you know it well?’

  ‘It is my native town, Commander, and very lovely. I have travelled much . . .’ He hesitated, then confided, ‘I too was in the war in France. I went there with the Ranipur Lancers and survived. I have seen nothing in your continent which can compare with Surigargh.’

  Joe nodded in agreement.

  ‘But tell me, Sandilands, because I do not take you for a tourist, why you went there.’

  ‘I say, is this official, this line of questioning?’ Joe asked lightly.

  ‘Not at all,’ smiled Ajit, ‘it is merely conversation. Because I know why you went there. No secret!’

  ‘Ali,’ said Joe. ‘We are looking rather urgently for Captain Mercer’s rigger. Mercer is finding it difficult to manage without his trained rigger as I’m sure you can appreciate. We had heard that Ali had returned to Surigargh. Not sure why.’

  ‘You would not find him there,’ said Ajit.

  ‘No indeed. No one had seen him apparently. They had no idea where he might have gone. I wonder if you have any idea, Ajit, of his present whereabouts?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ was the laconic reply. ‘I’m surprised you didn’t ask.’

  Joe waited, an enquiring smile on his lips. The smile faded at the finality of Ajit Singh’s next pronouncement.

  ‘Gone to Delhi!’

  Chapter Fifteen

  Joe was relieved to be tugged by the sleeve at this moment and to hear Edgar’s apologetic voice: ‘Sorry to break up this coppers’ convention, Ajit, old man,’ he said affably, ‘but Sandilands is much in demand this morning and is half-way through his calling list. Will you excuse us?’

  Joe added his own excuses and followed Edgar from the room. ‘Well, thanks for rescuing me from the Inquisition, Edgar! What a formidable man! I hope he never decides he wants to speak to me in his professional capacity!’

  ‘Good bloke, Ajit. In his way. Keeps control. Does what Udai wants done and does it without fuss. Brave feller too – much decorated, I understand, in the war. Still – I know what you mean. Don’t go annoying him, Joe. I wouldn’t like to have to spring you from one of his dungeons. I don’t forget I was once on the receiving end of his policing methods.’

  ‘I’ll bear it in mind. And now – in pursuit of something positive to report back – perhaps you could put me in touch with Sir Hector who is somewhere about in this warren. He asked if he might see me this morning. There’s still a bit of the morning remaining.’

  Edgar grunted, ‘Well, you’d better make it quick. I have to pass on to you an invitation to take tiffin with the Vyvyans. Lois told me to bid you to present yourself at the Residence at twelve thirty sharp. She can’t abide lounge lizards, so smarten yourself up, try to look a bit military if you can remember how that’s done and be punctual. I’ll summon Govind to take you there. Now, follow me,’ he said and walked ahead.

  Some minutes later they had arrived again in the New Palace and Edgar knocked at the door of a suite which appeared to be the twin of Joe’s own. The old physician opened the door at once and welcomed Joe. Edgar made his excuses and left them together. While Sir Hector bumbled off to a sideboard to pour out a whisky-soda Joe cast an eye quickly around the rooms. He was intrigued to see how the doctor had arranged the accommodation to suit himself. The bed and chairs had been swept into the smaller of the two living rooms and the larger now looked like a combination of library and consulting room. Benches were stacked with files and cases of instruments, a brass microscope with black japanned base and bearing the label ‘Zeiss. Jena’ stood at the ready. There was even a large table in the centre of the room on which a patient, or a corpse perhaps, could have been accommodated. Piles of fresh white linen and rows of glass pill bottles gave the room a reassuringly efficient air.

  ‘Do you have help here?’ asked Joe. ‘You seem to be running a small hospital . . .’

  ‘As a matter of fact, I do have help,’ said Sir Hector. ‘I’ve got a squad of young chaps I’m training up. They’re very good. Wasn’t easy to recruit them though at first. They have their own system out here, you know. Ayurvedic medicine it’s called. Leaves, herbs, roots and so on. I’m afraid the court physician wasn’t very pleased to see me coming over the horizon, but there you are – the ruler is very Western in some of his ways. He called me in too late though. And the deaths of his two sons have sapped his will to live, you’d say. Terrible setback for any parent, lethal for a chap who’s got weeks to live. To be frank, I’ve been alarmed at the rate at which he’s sunk since his sons started dropping off the twig. Bound to drag you down, disasters like that – so unnatural for one’s sons to die before one. Many of us learned that sad lesson in the war, don’t you know . . .’ His voice tr
ailed away.

  ‘Is there nothing you can do, sir?’

  ‘Nothing. Painkillers when necessary but even that’s superfluous – they have their own local supplies, as you’ll be aware. In fact his Ayurvedic remedies may well prove to be the most efficacious when it comes to these last stages.’ He frowned and went on, ‘I’m trying to learn what it’s all about and I have to say it’s not all the mumbo-jumbo you might expect. Oh, no. I’ve seen some quite remarkable things . . . The ruler keeps a potion about the place at all times and when he feels he’s in extremis he’ll swallow it.’

  ‘Kill himself, do you mean?’ Joe was alarmed.

  ‘No, no.’ Sir Hector shook his head and smiled. ‘Quite the reverse. It’s something called hiranya garbha. It’s a blend of pure gold – yes, the metal – goodness knows what the process might be for melting it down and making it digestible! – and ginger and other reviving herbs. If you take it on your deathbed, it’s reputed to bring you round sufficiently to enable you to talk. Been used – you can imagine the circumstances! – to elicit a last-gasp answer to urgent questions of the “Where did you hide the key of the treasure house, bapuji?” type. I will observe its effects with interest, should the occasion arise. Might even write a paper on it . . . But it’s not the ruler’s demise I wanted to talk to you about,’ he finished hesitantly.

  Joe sipped his whisky and waited.

  ‘The deaths of the two sons have concerned me. Well, of course, they’ve concerned everyone. And from your presence amongst us, Sandilands, I’d guess that the powers that be are troubled also. Is that right?’

  Joe nodded. ‘Yes, indeed, sir. And we were wondering whether you had any information regarding the deaths, any medical information perhaps, that might help us to understand the circumstances?’

  ‘Difficult. Hindus don’t go in for post-mortems, you know. I wouldn’t have been expected to carry one out on the princes and, after all, the cause of the deaths was very clear in each case. But in the case of the elder prince – Bishan, wasn’t it? – the ruler actually asked me to inspect the body. Not the regular carve up, you understand, more a snoop around to give him the specific information he wanted.’

  ‘Which was . . .?’

  ‘Quite simply – did the boy suffer? That’s all.’

  ‘A reasonable request from a father?’ suggested Joe.

  ‘Yes, of course. A natural need to know. But it was the answer to the question that intrigued me.’

  Sir Hector nodded towards the central table. ‘Had the body brought here before we gave it over to the bai-bands. You know the circumstances of the death?’

  Joe nodded. ‘Savaged by a wild panther, I hear?’

  ‘In a nutshell, yes. The body was a mess, as you can imagine. The flesh was shredded, one arm torn off . . . the beast must have been hungry – it had started to eat him. But, you’re a hunter, perhaps you are aware that a panther kills cleanly? One blow would have been enough to finish him off and I think I identified the lethal blow. To the throat. Where you’d expect it. The subsequent mangling looked dramatically hideous but practically all the wounds occurred after the poor chap was already dead.’

  ‘So the answer to Udai Singh’s question would be that his son did not suffer an unduly horrifying or protracted death?’

  ‘That’s so. But there’s something else. Difficult to tell with the destruction of tissue but there were signs that he’d taken a stiff dose of opium: pinpoint pupils, discoloration of the tongue. Now, Bishan wasn’t a complete fool. He took opium every morning, many Rajputs do – it’s hardly significant to them. Of as much note as this whisky we’re both enjoying.’ He waved his glass at Joe and offered to refill it. ‘It fortifies them for the day. But it doesn’t make them blind and deaf. On a normal day there’s no way Bishan would have failed to notice that the beast’s jaws were not sewn up and it still had its claws.’

  ‘But this was not a normal day?’

  ‘Well, it didn’t make much sense to me, the whole scene, so I called for his body servant, the chap who was always close to the prince in the morning, and questioned him. Easier said than done! These princes are surrounded by a retinue of servants, all apparently completely loyal to their master. Well, that’s Rajputs for you – they’ll defend their rulers whatever their faults. Anyway, I finally got hold of the right chap, gained his confidence and listened to what he had to tell me . . . I say, I hope I haven’t muddied the waters?’

  ‘On the contrary, you did exactly the right thing.’

  ‘Good to hear you say so. Well, I asked him how much of the drug he’d taken . . . made him describe Bishan’s routine. The servant confirmed that Bishan took his opium in the traditional local manner. Here . . . Look.’

  Sir Hector opened a drawer, took out a small object and put it into Joe’s palm. Joe studied the ball of dull yellow-grey substance with interest.

  ‘This is how it’s prepared for consumption.’

  ‘Nothing like this at Ciro’s,’ said Joe.

  ‘I’m sincerely glad to hear it! It’s been cooked in milk and sugar to counteract the evil taste.’

  ‘What on earth are you supposed to do with it?’

  ‘You take one of these,’ said Sir Hector, picking up an oval-shaped mortar. ‘I say, Sandilands, don’t assume that I always have the makings to hand, will you? I took the liberty of removing these from Bishan’s rooms . . . You pop the opium ball into the mortar and crush it. Then you mix it with water, filter it and drink. It’s a lot faster and much more immediate than smoking it through a hookah which is an alternative.’

  ‘Where did he get it from? Who was his supplier?’

  ‘No mystery there. It’s not exactly on prescription, you know. You can get it in any bazaar but Bishan got his from a local tribe – the Bishnoi – who live further south near Jodhpur. They’re farmers, pacifists, nature-lovers, tree-worshippers, if you can believe.’

  ‘And purveyors of strange substances to the royal family?’

  ‘For generations. Apparently Bishan had been taking a mild formula for years and appeared to be accustomed to it and tolerating it reasonably well. But then, according to the servant, two days before he died, Bishan asked him to make up his drink using a different supply. He produced a box with three balls of opium and had one made up in the usual way. From its effects the servant assumed it was a stronger formula – it put Bishan on his back for half the day.

  ‘He recovered and, nothing loath, took a second shot at it the following morning. He was just compos mentis enough to follow his morning routine, including the panther wrestling, with lethal consequences. That ball of opium you’re holding in your hand is the third and last remaining sample of the special batch. It would be interesting to find out how he came by them. Not, I think, from the servant who had been most helpful. When he realized what I was suspecting, he began to panic. By this time, the chap was quivering with fear, naturally. Thought he might be suspected of being instrumental in something nefarious and might expect a visit from Ajit Singh and his merry men. I think I managed to calm him down and dismissed it as nothing important – just a physician’s curiosity. They all know I’m interested in Indian medicine so I think I covered my tracks.

  ‘I brought the samples back here and tested them and – sure enough – there was a difference. The new box contained pills incorporating a dose that would have almost paralysed anyone who consumed them.’ He paused for a moment and added, ‘If Bishan took one of those horse pills he would have entered the panther cage flying! He would have been so high he wouldn’t have noticed the beast until it tore his throat out and probably didn’t feel much even then. Yes, my answer to the maharaja’s question was – “No, sire, your son did not suffer.”’

  ‘But we’re left wondering why the presumed heir to the throne changed his formula?’

  ‘Exactly. On paper this is a clear case of death by misadventure . . . but who supplied him with the opium that dulled his senses to a point where he would walk into that cage? The pan
ther killed him all right. But who murdered him, Sandilands?’

  Chapter Sixteen

  A name was on the tip of Joe’s tongue.

  The urge to answer the doctor’s question and indulge with him in a little fervid speculation was almost overwhelming. He sensed that Sir Hector would have been a lively co-conspirator, perfectly willing to listen to his outrageous suggestion and talk through it with him. A vision of Charlie Carter back in Simla came to Joe and he found he was missing the superintendent’s salty common sense and his local knowledge, missing his companionship and support. But silence, for the moment, was his only recourse. He fought back his own excitement at the laying of a further brick in the foundation of his theory. If he reasoned rightly, the enormity of his revelation would be such that it could only be allowed to reach the ear of one man: the man who held the invisible reins of power in India, the éminence grise behind the Viceroy – Sir George Jardine. But Joe was not yet so certain of the identity of the killer of the ruler’s sons that he could alert Sir George.

  He was aware of the danger of building on one idea to the exclusion of all others and was determined that the seductive completeness and simplicity of his theory would not cut him off from other avenues of enquiry. He was frustrated by his powerlessness to conduct an investigation by the book. His brief restricted him to cruising around this alien crime scene, picking up bits of information from whoever was willing to divulge them. And he was not deceived – some of the facts and impressions confided to him might well have been as misdirecting and distracting as the swift brown hands of the child conjuror in Surigargh.