The Palace Tiger Read online

  ‘We were led, blinking in the sunlight, over to a couple of chaps standing about with guns. An Englishman and his Indian aide. The Englishman was a very impressive fellow but unfortunately a fellow I’d never set eyes on before, so – no use to me. He was tall and slim with a neat waist, equally neat moustache and that commanding, supercilious air you British are so good at affecting. He turned around and gave us the benefit of it. Someone with that amount of confidence I calculated could be none other than the newly appointed British Resident, Claude Vyvyan. Know him, Joe?’

  Joe shook his head.

  ‘Well, he certainly didn’t know me. His icy blue eye passed over me with the same interest he’d have paid to a pile of camel dung but he did brighten up a bit when he saw the Brigadier. “Monty! What the hell?” The Brig danced about with relief. They knew each other well and release and explanations swiftly followed. And, of course, wouldn’t you know, Edgar Troop was found much to blame! My hunting expertise was decidedly being called into question and to break the rhythm of all the “But how on earth was it possible to do such a stupid thing? . . . Monty, old boy, in future, always refer to me for advice!”, I decided to assert myself. I looked up at the sky with what I thought to be a disparaging, dismissive and cunning air and made a remark.

  ‘Now, in Ranipur the climax of a duck shoot was to drive what they call the Long Pond and I can tell you – the wild duck come off it as thick as bloody sparrows! It really is the most impressive thing when they start to move. I said, addressing the remark to no one in particular, “Why on earth do you suppose they take the Long Pond from east to west and stand the guns along the south side when they could take it from north to south and everybody would get a second shot, a third or a fourth?”

  ‘Now the Indian aide in European clothes who’d been standing at Vyvyan’s side and listening, answered me. To my astonishment in perfect and unaccented English he said, “Say that again, will you? It sounded like an interesting idea – if a bit obvious, perhaps.” Well, I began to realize that this must be a person of some importance so I said, “Get me a drink and I’ll gladly repeat it.” As you’ve probably guessed, this insignificant figure was the maharaja of Ranipur. Without much discussion he adopted my revised plan for driving the Long Pond. It worked beautifully, just as I’d said it would, and Udai was very impressed. From that moment on – though obviously we’ve had our tiffs from time to time – I could do no wrong. When I’m in Ranipur he puts a guest house at my disposal and although Ranipur is what you might call his principal residence, there are others. The moment he wants to get away from the formalities of court he moves away into a more secluded part of his state and I’ve accompanied him many times.’

  Joe looked back at the telegram once more and frowned. ‘And this enables him to order you to come and go at a whim, does it?’

  ‘Bit sharp, isn’t it? But that won’t have been sent by Udai. That’s Claude’s style. He usually sends the telegrams. Claude. The British Resident I was telling you about.’

  ‘Resident?’ Joe queried. ‘A political appointment?’

  ‘Yes. This is usual with the princely states. The rulers have all signed treaties with the British Government. They support the crown and in return we leave them largely alone to get on with ruling as they see fit. But, just in case, we send a trusted civil servant or military bloke of some standing to reside in the state and see that the ruler stays on the straight and narrow. He’s a sort of permanently-inplace ambassador.’

  ‘And does this system work?’ Joe asked doubtfully. ‘Surely autocrats like the maharajas resent someone peering over their shoulders all the time?’

  ‘Yes, it works. Mostly. These fellers manage to steer a clever course. Some of them have done a great deal of good, making just the sort of social improvements a chap like you would approve of. More than one ruler’s been persuaded to haul himself and his state into the twentieth century and build roads, hospitals, schools. Some are only too pleased to pass the running of the state over to a pair of capable hands.’ He paused. ‘Of course there are some rulers who are incorrigibly medieval in their behaviour.’

  ‘And how does a Resident deal with medieval behaviour?’ asked Joe, intrigued.

  ‘Decisively,’ said Edgar with relish. ‘Ever heard of the maharaja of Patiala?’

  ‘Heard of him? I’ve seen him!’ said Joe. ‘In Calcutta last December. He was in the parade to welcome the Prince of Wales when he opened the Victoria Monument. You wouldn’t forget seeing him!’ Joe remembered the impression the maharaja had made on the crowds. He’d swaggered about in scarlet tunic, white leggings, black thigh-length leather boots, the whole topped off with a daffodil yellow turban fastened with an emerald cluster. Well over six feet and built like a bear, he wore his luxuriant black moustaches tucked up into his turban. ‘An impressive figure,’ Joe added.

  Edgar grinned. ‘Couldn’t agree more but did you know that this friend of the Prince of Wales, this loyal advocate of the Pax Britannica, this member of every polo club from Hurlingham to Isfahan has been in hot water for what I can only call medieval bad behaviour?’

  ‘I didn’t know,’ said Joe. ‘What did he do? Drink from his finger bowl?’

  ‘It was discovered,’ said Edgar gleefully, ‘that the chap had been deflowering virgins. Oh, not just the odd one but on a gargantuan scale. One a day for no one knows how many years! And all that on top of having hundreds of concubines in his harem!’

  ‘How tiring!’ said Joe. ‘Come on, Edgar – you don’t believe all these stories, do you?’

  ‘His people certainly do! They’re actually proud of their ruler’s prowess!’ Edgar smirked and went on in a confiding tone, ‘There’s a yearly ceremony in Patiala. People travel for miles to see it. Went myself one year and saw it with my own eyes so I know this is no story! The maharaja parades through the streets of his city naked but for a waist-length vest encrusted with a thousand and one diamonds, acknowledging the cheers of his subjects with what I can best describe as a priapic salute!’

  ‘Good Lord! Seems a bit excessive!’

  ‘Not one to go off at half cock, Patiala!’ Edgar laughed. ‘But too strong for most tastes and someone – the Resident, it’s assumed – had a quiet word with him and told him not to do it again.’

  ‘A quiet word, Edgar? Would that be enough to bring about the required change in behaviour?’

  ‘Depends on the word,’ said Edgar. ‘If, amongst all the finger-wagging, wrist-slapping and minatory phrases a slight emphasis were put on “deposition”,’ he grinned, ‘it would do the trick. Or perhaps – horror of horrors! – HM Gov. threatened to reduce his gun salute from nineteen to eleven. Now that would have a decidedly deflationary effect! But, whatever the persuasion used, the Resident achieved his end, which was to placate the memsahibs who’ve infiltrated the state as they have all over India bringing their dire baggage of morality, religion and social justice.’

  Joe knew Edgar was likely to get the bit between his teeth when the conversation moved to the modern woman. For him, the India of the East India Company was the ideal: a glamorous, masculine world of traders, fighters, opportunists, men who, discarding Western influences, took Indian women as wives and mistresses, spoke their languages and exploited their country. The world of John Company, according to Edgar, had come to a regrettable end when sea travel improved and droves of Englishwomen found themselves able to make the journey out to the East and fish for husbands in India. He hurried to divert Edgar from the anticipated diatribe.

  ‘I take it the Ranipur Resident has an easier life? What sort of man is Vyvyan? You speak of him with modified rapture?’

  ‘Oh, Claude is very good. Brilliant even. Gets on well with the prince, knows when to look the other way, works tirelessly for good relations between Ranipur and the Empire. Model situation, you could say. And far from being a strained relationship as you might expect, Claude has become his friend and confidant. It’s a tricky balancing act being ruler. Lonely too. Most of Ud
ai’s relations are only waiting to step into his empty shoes, most of his subjects are standing round trying how best to make money out of him. Claude helps him keep balance and authority.’

  ‘And what role does Edgar Troop play in all this? Which of your many talents do you lay out for the ruler?’

  Edgar looked pleased. ‘In my way, I suppose I’m a sort of safety valve. Udai enjoys his drink, shooting, polo, expensive trips to Europe, female company, occasionally getting married. In fact the perfect life of the Rajput gentleman that he is. I couldn’t sympathize with him more! I wouldn’t like you to know all the things I’ve done for him in my time. I wouldn’t like to mention some of the things he’s done for me. But that’s what’s given rise to this telegram. It probably means he’s bored and wants me to spice things up a bit for him.’

  ‘What sort of a place has he got in Ranipur?’

  ‘Think Buckingham Palace and multiply by ten. Perhaps a thousand rooms. Ancient. Beautiful. Parts very dilapidated, parts immaculate. Parts inhabited by storks and bats, snakes too probably. The Old Palace is kept for formal occasions and it’s home to many of his relations and all the women of the household. Udai has the sense to live elsewhere – in the New Palace. Every modern convenience! And he’s built himself several guest bungalows. He usually sets one of these aside for me.’

  Servants were beginning to hover round the disordered breakfast table.

  ‘I think we’d better take the hint,’ said Edgar and, giving orders as he did so, led Joe out on to a cluttered terrace. He waved a hand vaguely at the overgrown shrubbery in the courtyard. ‘Must do something about this,’ he said absently. ‘Trouble is, things either grow to four times their expected size or die off and, as you see, we’ve got a fair sample of both here. Sit down. Ready for a beer now?’

  It was the Chummery routine to move straight from coffee to a foaming glass of chilled ale and a servant was standing by with a tray already loaded. Edgar gulped down half his glass, wiped his moustache and looked at Joe with speculation. He leaned forward. ‘Look, Joe, I can see you’re getting fed up with Simla. Damned hard work being on enforced vacation. Why don’t you get Sir George to sign an exeat for you and come to Ranipur with me?’

  Chapter Three

  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 m
ay 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 3½-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.’