The Palace Tiger Read online

  He sighed and thanked Sir Hector for his evidence and for sharing his concerns with him. He reassured him once more that his actions had been exactly what Scotland Yard would have approved and begged his continued discretion. As he prepared to leave, he was struck by a sudden thought. ‘Sir Hector, can you tell me . . . not sure how intimate you are with the royal family . . . can you tell me whether Bishan was married? What his family circumstances were?’

  The old physician looked puzzled for a moment then replied slowly, ‘Yes, of course, I can see why you’d want to know that and perhaps it takes a fresh eye to look at the situation from that angle. I believe he had a wife but I don’t remember hearing of any offspring.’ He cleared his throat and looked uncomfortable then added, ‘Doesn’t have the reputation of being a terribly uxorious fellow, if you take my meaning. But you’d need to ask someone closer to the family than I, Sandilands. Being a medic – you know, you get out of the habit of gossiping. Sorry, old man . . . I’d like to help.’ Thoughtfully he said, ‘And this means that now Udai will never see a grandchild. Pity, that. He’s quite a patriarch at heart . . . they all are.’

  As Joe nodded goodbye, Sir Hector, on impulse, seized him by the hand.

  ‘Now look here, Sandilands – you will keep in mind the fact that the ruler has a third son to lose, won’t you? It would be unbearable if anything were to happen to that bright young chap.’

  Joe considered for a moment and then replied, ‘Don’t concern yourself, sir. I have a feeling that young Bahadur is safe enough. Now.’

  Govind was already waiting by the door to take Joe on to his next meeting. A quick visit to his own quarters enabled him to shower and rub himself down and exchange his sweat-stained shirt and trousers for the fresh ones which had been laid out on his bed. Linen trousers, white shirt, a club tie that he could not instantly identify and a discreet blazer borrowed and adapted from Sir George’s stock, he noted. This seemed to be a formal enough occasion and in England he would have arrived on Lois’s doorstep clutching a bunch of flowers, but here? He wondered what was the custom.

  ‘Govind? Should I take a small gift for my hostess? What do you think?’

  ‘Sahib, I think Mrs Vyvyan would welcome, would even expect a small token. Not flowers perhaps as she has surrounded herself with them . . .’ He thought for a moment while Joe waited expectantly for the elusive word. ‘Bounteously!’ he added, pleased with his adverb. ‘You will see! But madam does enjoy reading. And anything that comes from Home is always eagerly accepted.’ He smiled, looked calculatingly at Joe and decided to go further. ‘I believe that the sahib has amongst his luggage one or two copies of books, recent ones, by her favourite author. She would be delighted to find herself the recipient of, shall we say, Jill the Reckless by P.G. Wodehouse.’

  Joe grinned. ‘Well, luckily I’ve just finished reading it. Good thought, Govind! And perhaps it should be accompanied by The Indiscretions of Archie for Mr Vyvyan?’

  Privately, he wondered how many of this author’s books Govind had himself devoured.

  While Joe put the finishing touches to his outfit, Govind located the books and carefully tied them up with a ribbon by which they might be carried since the dark blue dye of the covers would undoubtedly smudge if they came into contact with a hot hand, he explained. Not for the first time, Joe wondered at the courtesy and high efficiency he encountered everywhere in India and asked himself how on earth he was going to manage his affairs back home in his flat overlooking the Thames. He contrasted the stately, all-knowing Govind and his impeccable arrangements with portly Mrs Jago who twice a week rolled up her sleeves, adjusted her pinny and did battle with the smuts deposited on his rooms by the neighbouring Lots Road power station.

  Catching Govind’s surreptitious glance at his watch, Joe hurried to present himself, noting that as they were a good fifteen minutes ahead of the lunch appointment, the Vyvyans’ quarters must be at some distance from his own.

  ‘Far to go, Govind?’ Joe asked, walking smartly down the corridor of the New Palace alongside his escort.

  ‘Quite far, sahib. But a pleasant walk. To the north of the Old Palace, between the palace and the lake is a house which was built many, many years ago as a retreat for the rajmata, the queen mother. It is now used as the Residency.’

  They arrived at last in front of a fifteen foot high wall covered in cascades of pink and white pelargoniums, and Govind led the way through an archway into a garden which took Joe’s breath away. He grinned. ‘You said it, Govind! “Bounteous”. That’s the only word for this show! Eat your heart out, Wisley!’

  A profusion of foliage and flowers, many recognizably English ones, clustered around a small but gracious Moghul-inspired dower house. A flight of marble steps led to a pillared portico and an open door at which stood Lois Vyvyan. Looking for all the world like a Staffordshire figurine, was Joe’s impression, as he took in the light afternoon dress of lilac, the trug spilling over with marguerites and dahlias that she held on her arm. Catching sight of them, she handed the trug to a servant standing by, dusted off her hands and came forward to greet Joe.

  She aimed a smile at a spot a fraction over Joe’s right shoulder. ‘Welcome to the Residency, Commander.’

  She dismissed Govind with a nod and indicated that Joe should install himself in one of the rattan planter’s chairs which stood on the verandah. ‘May I get you a drink? We have sherry, champagne, hock . . . ‘ she said vaguely.

  ‘The idea of a glass of hock is suddenly appealing,’ said Joe affably and another servant was sent off to fetch the drinks tray.

  ‘We are well provided for, you’ll find,’ she said. ‘Anything – well, most things – one has at Home is available in Ranipur. You just have to ask. Udai is very generous. The only thing the Residency lacks, in fact,’ she smiled and arched a carefully plucked eyebrow, ‘is the Resident! Claude! He works too hard. The cry of the memsahib all over India, I know! But it’s true. Always one more document to complete, one more letter to dictate, one more petitioner to see . . . He will be joining us shortly.’

  ‘Where does your husband do his work? Here at the Residency?’

  ‘No. This building is very lovely but hardly commodious. We have four reception rooms and six bedrooms and that’s quite small for India. Claude has his office in a bungalow down by the lake. A good arrangement. I would not care to have my house trampled through by all and sundry. Oh, excuse me – may I take your parcel?’ she asked, catching sight of the bundle of books.

  ‘You may indeed take it,’ said Joe. ‘And keep it. It’s a small gift for you and the sahib. Govind assures me that you appreciate Wodehouse.’

  As he handed over the books he was struck by a sudden doubt. Had Govind got it right? Did this stiff Englishwoman have a sense of humour? But her reaction was spontaneous and certainly not a snort of disgust.

  ‘You are too kind! But what a treat! Oh, are you sure you can spare them?’ she said, unfastening the ribbon with eager fingers. ‘Jill the Reckless. Oh, good! I haven’t read it.’

  ‘It’s very new,’ said Joe, pleased at last to feel he was living in the same world as Lois Vyvyan. And to pass the time until the arrival of the drinks, ‘I’ve just finished it. It’s the usual story of a pretty young girl who loses her fortune and has to go, penniless, across the ocean to find herself a congenial, rich man . . . I think you’ll enjoy it,’ he finished hurriedly, not at all convinced by Lois’s arching eyebrows that she would.

  But perhaps his doubts were a delusion as she replied in a friendly enough tone, ‘I’m sure I shall. And what have we here? For Claude? The Indiscretions of Archie?’ For a moment he had a clear notion that if Lois were capable of a giggle she was attempting to repress one. ‘Commander, are you trying to convey a message?’

  The drinks tray arrived at that moment and Lois did not wait for his answer but busied herself checking its contents.

  ‘Here’s your hock. A good one, I think. Seltzer for you? No? Why don’t you bring it throug
h to the drawing room? I hear you have quite an eye for architecture, Commander, and you must be curious to see the interior. It does not disappoint!’

  It didn’t. Joe thought he could live out his life in this pretty house and count himself blessed. By Indian standards the rooms were, indeed, small but Lois had chosen to furnish them appropriately in pieces lighter than the usual Western, overstuffed, oversized, dark wood relics of the Victorian age. Unusually for a memsahib, she had introduced one or two items of Indian workmanship; a long low white upholstered sofa was scattered with piles of silk cushions in lime, purple and magenta and in pride of place was a white-painted grand piano.

  Joe walked over to it and ran a hand over the keys. ‘Do you play, Mrs Vyvyan?’

  ‘Yes.’ She smiled. ‘Not well, but with more skill than you, apparently. What was that? I didn’t recognize it.’

  ‘Not entirely sure the composer would have either,’ said Joe. ‘“Elite Syncopations”. Scott Joplin . . .’

  ‘Ah. I’m not familiar with jazz,’ said Lois. Her tone made it quite clear that she sought no greater familiarity.

  Joe turned his attention to the ranks of framed photographs methodically lined up on the piano. Some were in sepia, some in black and white, all were formal portraits. In prime position on the front row was an army man so like Lois, Joe asked without hesitation, ‘Your father?’

  She smiled sadly. ‘Killed in France. He should have retired years before but,’ she shrugged a slim shoulder, ‘you know how it is with military men, Commander. When your country needs you, you make yourself available. And my father was army to the core.’

  Her pride was evident. Joe looked more closely at the uniform, trying to identify the rank. ‘Brigadier-General, I think? Your father did well.’

  ‘At whatever he attempted,’ was the brief reply.

  Joe’s eye was caught by a distracting detail of the Brigadier’s uniform and he turned his face away from Lois, unwilling to reveal his fleeting expression of interest and surprise. Could he have this right? he wondered and checked again discreetly. Yes, it was small but there was no mistaking the insignia.

  He could have commented on it, shown an informed interest in the wreath of oak leaves surrounding the letters RFC, asked a polite question, but he decided, on impulse, to keep his observation to himself. Enough to note that Lois didn’t consider it worthy of comment.

  ‘Your rank intrigues me,’ Lois went on. ‘Commander? It has a naval ring to it?’

  ‘Yes. And quite deliberately so. You are intended to be impressed by it. You are intended to think, “My goodness! If such a young and dashing chap can attain the rank of Commander, he must be of high ability and of some consequence in the force.”’

  He had attempted a light, self-deprecating tone but Lois was ready, as usual, with her barbed comment. ‘Or perhaps, “Here is a young man who has stepped into dead men’s shoes”? Many gaps in the ranks after the war. Too many green young colonels in the services. I suppose it was the same with the police?’

  In all his time in India, Lois Vyvyan was the first to question him about his rank. She seemed genuinely interested and well informed, if annoyingly rude. Did she choose deliberately to ruffle his feathers? Joe was reminded strongly of a little Angus terrier he had owned before the war. It had hated strangers and would approach them, tail wagging with every sign of good humour but the moment a hand was extended in friendship, that hand would receive a nasty nip. Joe knew the dog couldn’t help it. He set out to be welcoming, he knew he ought to be friendly but he just had to bite first.

  ‘Well, I left the army a green major,’ said Joe, ‘and not being a dyed-in-the-wool military man I was very ready to transfer to the police force.’

  ‘Strange decision?’ said Lois. ‘Wasn’t it? Did no one advise you against it? Pounding the beat and apprehending small boys stealing apples must have seemed rather tame after four years of battling the Kaiser?’

  ‘Delightfully tame,’ said Joe with a broad grin. ‘I was never a career soldier. But I was promoted quickly from apple-scrumping arrests. There are in normal times two commanders for the London area. I was appointed a third with special duties.’

  Lois was listening with genuine interest so he carried on. ‘After the war, many officers were turned loose on the civilized world to make their way in it again. Many had had their lives destroyed, their position in society usurped, their wealth dissipated, their fiancées stolen . . . And what were they left with? With a carefully nurtured ability to kill and to survive and a coarsened sense of morality on which to base their future existence. You will be shocked but perhaps not surprised to learn that some of these trained killers took to a life of crime and violence.’

  Lois nodded.

  ‘And who was there to apprehend this new breed of villain – the upper class crook? Not a bumbling, bluecaped bobby, wobbling along on a bike! Imagine, will you, arriving at a large country house or at a flat in Albany to put a question or two to the Right Honourable Fruity Featherstonehaugh. A bobby would be expected to present himself at the tradesmen’s entrance, wipe his boots and, if he was lucky, the butler might inform his master of the presence of the Law below but in the meantime he would be welcome to a cup of kitchen tea and a slice of cook’s Dundee cake . . .’

  ‘Naturally. But a commander, well-born and educated, arrives at the front door able to speak de couronne en couronne to His Grace or whoever is suspected of some dastardly wheeze . . .’ said Lois with a flash of insight and enthusiasm.

  ‘Exactly! I have a department chosen by me and a wandering brief from the Commissioner, Sir Nevil Macready – who, by the way, is a close friend of Sir George and very like him in style.’

  ‘I see it all,’ smiled Lois. ‘But what on earth are you doing in India? I’m sure you are much needed in London. How can they spare you?’

  ‘I was lent to Sir George for six months to advise and train the Calcutta Police,’ said Joe. ‘A two-way process as it turned out! I learned as much from them as they learned from me. But my secondment seems to have stretched beyond the original spell. Sir George keeps finding me cases to clear up.’

  ‘And is that what you’re doing here?’ asked Lois with a sweet smile. ‘May we expect you to drag one of us away in manacles?’

  ‘No. I’m off duty. Sir George has granted me a week’s leave to watch a tiger being bagged.’

  ‘Oh, I think you’re planning on doing more than watch, Sandilands,’ came Claude’s voice from the door. ‘I’ve seen your gun! You could shoot the eye out of the Man in the Moon with that! Don’t be deceived, Lois, by this chap’s modesty. I had someone check his file for me – I’m a careful man, Commander! – and he’s quite a fire-eater. Watch out, Lois! If you’ve been cheating at bridge, he’ll find you out!’

  This was the first time Joe had seen the Vyvyans reacting with each other and he was intrigued to note the sudden gentleness in Lois’s tone as she enquired about her husband’s morning. Her expressive face could not hide an unspoken question underlying the words and Claude responded to this with a reassuring smile and an imperceptible nod. He answered succinctly and lightly, involving their guest in his replies, and his eyes, Joe noticed, followed his wife as she moved about the room. He would have said their relationship was one of respect and affection.

  With Claude’s sunny presence, the conversation, which had been limping along, took on a lighter tone and a faster pace. After a while Claude said hesitantly, ‘I don’t believe you’ll mind, Sandilands, if I tell Lois the news of our little ceremony with the ruler earlier? So much to do as a consequence of all that, I haven’t yet had time to inform her of his decision! My dear – it’s Bahadur!’

  ‘Well, of course it’s Bahadur! But how good to know that officially at last!’ was Lois’s delighted reply. ‘And . . .?’

  ‘And yours truly is to be co-regent. I must say I look forward to working with that clever young man! Quite the best thing that could have happened for Ranipur and for India. Why don’t I ha
ve a glass of that hock to celebrate, my love? I don’t often indulge in the middle of the day but this is a special occasion – I’m sure you’ll understand, Sandilands? A lot of hard work and planning has gone on behind the scenes to get to where we are at this moment!’

  His comment fell with an almost audible clunk between them, a comment wide open to misinterpretation by anyone with a devious mind and quite obviously that was exactly what Lois Vyvyan had. Surprisingly, she chortled into her glass and looked at Joe with merriment. ‘Gracious, Claude! Do have a care! The Commander is reaching for his notebook! He’ll be asking you for a confession to two murders if you’re not more circumspect!’

  Joe grinned affably back and Lois went on in the same light tone, ‘But who’s your partner-in-crime, Claude? You said co-regent? My money’s always been on Zalim . . .’

  ‘No. Rather a surprise, I have to say. It’s Third Her Highness. Shubhada. The lad’s stepmother.’

  Lois’s amusement died. ‘Ah. Not such good news. Now why on earth would Udai go and do that?’

  ‘Makes a certain sense when you think about it,’ said Claude. ‘The girl’s intelligent and ambitious. I think she’ll take the position seriously. And don’t lose sight of the real reason for naming her. Udai’s very much in love with her and very much under her thumb, you’d say. He knows that his death will strip her of all official position in the state. She will be reduced to an insignificant and very dull existence indeed when he pops off. By making her coregent he enhances her power in princely India.’

  ‘Power, you say? Just how much power are we considering, sir?’ Joe asked.

  ‘It depends on Bahadur himself,’ said Claude. ‘He may want to get his hands on the reins of government as soon as possible, which would be at the age of sixteen – eighteen if he’s not so keen. The intervening years, the years of his minority, will be vital for us. We’ll send him to Mayo College or, better still, to England if that’s what he would prefer, and run the show while he’s off playing cricket and learning French and geography. Tricky times, as you’re aware, Sandilands. Politically, we’re walking through a minefield. No one is sure what the role of the princely states ought to be in the larger context of the continent – many different opinions. All we can do here is keep the lid on until further orders are issued.’