The Palace Tiger Page 5

  With relief, he noticed that a rider was making his way at a gallop from the town. He paused briefly to exchange a word or two with Edgar and Madeleine as he passed the Rolls and then came on down the road. The man approaching rode well but with none of the stiffness of a military man. He was wearing a solar topee, khaki drill jacket and trousers, and his horse was a fine, tall sorrel. Looking about him with a keen eye he dismounted and, leading his horse, came on towards Joe, hand outstretched.

  ‘How do you do? Claude Vyvyan. British Resident at Ranipur.’

  Joe extended a blackened hand and tried not to flinch as Vyvyan grasped it firmly. ‘Joe Sandilands. Commander, Scotland Yard.’

  So formal and ridiculous was the exchange, Joe almost expected Vyvyan’s next utterance to be ‘I see you’ve been having a spot of bother?’

  What he did say was, ‘What a bloody awful mess! Thank God you were here. Though I’m sorry you ran into this shower of shit.’ He batted away a straying strand of tinsel and grimaced apologetically.

  Joe smiled and looked with interest at the man who was the power behind or, more probably, beside the throne in Ranipur. Vyvyan moved with an athletic grace unspoiled by the parade ground. In his early thirties, he was as tall as Joe and, as the portly Edgar had not failed enviously to notice, had a slim and elegant figure. Seeing that Joe was bareheaded, Vyvyan swept off his topee and the two men stood for a moment assessing each other. Cold blue eyes, Joe remembered, had featured in Edgar’s description. Not cold, he thought, not cold to him at least, but intelligent and penetrating. The nose was commanding; he’d seen its like on a portrait of the young Duke of Wellington. The lips, at the moment slanting in a rueful and discreet smile, were thin but well defined under a neat brown moustache. His hair was well barbered, dark brown and plentiful.

  Under the other’s gaze, Joe felt suddenly aware of his dishevelled appearance and unconsciously ran a dirt-caked hand through his own thick black hair. Vyvyan smiled again. ‘What a welcome to the state! Pity it had to be like this! I’ve been so looking forward to meeting you, Sandilands.’

  ‘What would I say if I’d just been told this man was my new commanding officer?’ Joe asked himself, applying his usual test when meeting someone in authority for the first time, and he decided that he would be reassured, even pleased.

  They went to stand on either side of the corpse, each wrapped in his own thoughts. Finally Vyvyan said, ‘Two sons in six weeks! Coincidence? I think not. Is there any chance, Commander, that . . .’ His voice trailed away.

  ‘Every chance,’ said Joe. ‘We witnessed the crash and have inspected a key part of the wreckage which luckily was undamaged. I’ve sent it back to the palace where you can inspect it yourself. Are you familiar with aeroplanes, sir?’

  Vyvyan shook his head.

  ‘Well, I haven’t much experience but – look, I’ll speak plainly: I suspect the plane was sabotaged. Someone meant to kill the pilot.’

  ‘Yes. The pilot,’ said Vyvyan slowly. ‘But, Sandilands, you should know that it was generally understood that Captain Mercer was to undertake the flight. You should put that in your notebook if you’re going to investigate this . . . this . . .’ He waved a hand over the body. ‘. . . occurrence. But I leap ahead. Are you aware of Captain Mercer?’

  ‘I only know what I heard from Madeleine on the way here. Don’t assume I’ve had any briefing or have any professional interest in events past or present in Ranipur, sir,’ he lied. ‘I’m down here for a tiger hunt.’

  ‘Is that what he told you? Scheming old bastard! George Jardine can smell trouble coming across a continent! There was a time when he would have appeared himself to sort out a crisis like this but now I hear he’s found himself a young and active alter ego to do his dirty work while he gets on with running India.’ He smiled to lighten the comment and added, ‘Am I right? Still, I think I can promise you’ll get your tiger hunt.’

  A thin crowd of onlookers had begun to leave the road and fields and gather round, staring from a distance at the scene of disaster, chattering volubly and scuffing in the dust to pick up handfuls of gold tinsel. Claude turned to them, gesticulating and shouting in Hindi. ‘Get back, you buggers! Nothing to see! Ah, at last! There we are. Reinforcements on their way.’

  Several motor vehicles and men on horseback were coming down the road towards them. ‘We’ll get you back to the palace and then perhaps you can give a formal written witness statement? Not often the investigating officer is invited to do that, I’d guess!’

  ‘Is that what I am?’ said Joe lugubriously.

  ‘Oh yes. Certainly.’ Vyvyan allowed himself a broad smile. ‘I’m appointing you.’

  Joe looked back with guarded friendship at his new commanding officer.

  Chapter Six

  The late afternoon sun was slanting down on the sculpted and fretted façade of the Old Palace, creating a complex shadow play on the pink sandstone, an effect which would, in other circumstances, have held Joe’s delighted attention as they entered a vast courtyard and paused in front of the ceremonial entrance. Once again he was in the back seat of the Rolls, accompanied this time by Claude who had handed his horse to a syce and joined him. He turned to Joe as they came to a halt.

  ‘This is Govind,’ he said as a tall and impressive Indian stepped forward to open the car door. ‘He will see you to your suite in the New Palace. Govind will look after you during your stay – he’s your khitmutgar, your personal butler cum valet. He is Rajput, of course, and he knows everything there is to know about the palace. He speaks better English than you or I and is very used to European ways; he always accompanies His Highness on his trips to Europe and had his training in a ducal household.’ Govind bowed and smiled. He had a luxuriant black moustache and was wearing a spotless white uniform and an impeccable saffron turban. Joe suddenly felt very grubby and weary.

  Reading his thoughts, Claude said, ‘Bath first, I think? And then your written report if that’s not too much of an imposition, then I’ll ask you to come down to dinner with a selection of the guests. If you’re feeling up to it, of course! His Highness, in view of the dreadful events, will not be joining us, I assume. Not that he ever does dine with his guests – a religious thing. He usually greets them and has a drink but, today . . . who can say? Let’s play it by ear, shall we, Sandilands? See you later, then. Oh, and enjoy the plumbing!’

  He turned to leave but, casually, over his shoulder, added, ‘By the way, we usually wear white tie . . .’

  He flashed an unspoken question at Joe who picked it up and replied genially, ‘I would expect so. Don’t concern yourself, sir. I’ve just spent a month in Simla. I’m not straight off the beat! I even have a snooker jacket in my luggage,’ he confided. ‘Black velvet. With frogging! At Sir George’s insistence!’

  ‘Good Lord! Bury it!’ was Vyvyan’s reply.

  ‘I was planning to do just that!’

  ‘But look, Sandilands, we’re the same size – anything you want, just mention it to Govind.’

  Left alone with Govind, Joe shrugged off his weariness to make contact with his new mentor. He gestured towards the ceremonial gate which led from the courtyard. ‘A splendid entrance, indeed!’ he said. ‘I had heard that Rajputs were tall but this is surely of an extraordinary height?’

  Govind smiled. ‘Not extraordinary at all, sahib. Rather ordinary you will find for Rajputana. We build our gates to accommodate the elephants which pass through them and, of course, the elephants are surmounted by a howdah.’

  ‘Oh, yes, of course,’ said Joe, feeling foolish.

  ‘Guests frequently enquire about the emblem of the sun which you see alongside the gate,’ Govind prompted.

  Joe’s eyes followed his gesture and took in a large golden smiling face which radiated good humour and the literal rays of a sun from what appeared to be a shuttered window let into the palace wall, many feet above the ground. A plaque of some sort?

  Seeing his interest, Govind went on, ‘The Rajput race is
descended from the sun . . . to be precise, from Lava, the elder son of Rama. The people gather here in the courtyard each morning to see the rising sun reflect from the golden face you see above you. Then they know that all is well. The god is with them and remembers his offspring.’

  ‘And if, one day, the sun does not show his face?’ said Joe. ‘I mean, you do have a monsoon season, don’t you?’

  He guessed from Govind’s slight smile that he was not the first to ask this question.

  ‘When the weather is inclement, sahib, and the sun is not visible, then the ruler himself opens the window and shows his own godlike features to the crowd. They are reassured that the sun in one form or another is always with his people. And now, sahib, if you will follow me . . .?’

  Joe followed Govind through a maze of courtyards and corridors, finally crossing a lush green lawn and standing to gaze, shrugging off his fatigue and heat-exhaustion, at the building adjoining the Old Palace. The New Palace, he presumed. New in Victorian times, perhaps. He looked with pleasure at the English country house now confronting him and wondered about the architect. Charles Voysey? Edwin Lutyens? No. He looked again, seeing now a distinctly Eastern element to the design which was a harmonious blend of Eastern and Western style, and a name came to mind. Sir Samuel Swinton Jacob. Surely his was the hand behind this formidable pile?

  Govind had stopped, sensing his charge was lagging behind. With an apologetic smile, Joe waved him on and followed him through an imposing entrance and down a marble-floored corridor, along which, unaccountably, a cooler, if not cool, current of air flowed. They crossed an internal courtyard which Joe reasoned was part of the simple but cleverly designed and natural cooling system for the house. The courtyard was full of raucous peacocks and fluttering white doves, its grassed centre green and well watered. Surrounding shrubs echoed the mix of East and West, thoroughly English roses stoutly holding their own against extravagant bougainvillea, cascading in shades of purest white to deep purple. A drowning perfume, intensifying in the early evening air, enchanted Joe. He stopped again and asked what it was. Govind reached up and plucked a flower from a tall shrub and handed it to Joe. The small, bell-shaped flower was cream and white and looked as though it were carved out of wax.

  ‘Frangipani, sahib,’ said Govind. ‘Delightful, is it not? Though I find it becomes a little overpowering if it is allowed to grow too abundantly.’

  Joe’s rooms were down a corridor off the courtyard. Govind pushed the door open and showed him inside. Joe took a moment to look about him. The Ritz? The Savoy? As good as either, he thought with satisfaction. An electric fan overhead seemed to be dealing effectively with the residue of the day’s heat, the bed, piled high with silken cushions, looked inviting, the furniture was the best that Waring and Gillow had to offer and his trunk was standing at the bottom of the bed. Magically, his travelling bag seemed to have made the trip in safety also.

  ‘My gun case?’ he asked, anxiously.

  Govind hurried to reassure him. ‘It is already in the gun room, sahib, where it is being checked by our Master At Arms to ensure that your gun has been unaffected by the journey.’ He pointed to a bell pull and invited Joe to ring when he wanted anything. He led him through an archway to a further room which was laid out as a study with a fine writing desk, two chairs and a low table, illumination supplied by elegant electric lamps. A door off, Govind told him, led to the bathroom. ‘Your bath has been drawn, sahib, and awaits you. Please ring when you are ready to summon help with dressing.’

  ‘No need for that, thank you, Govind. I’m accustomed to dressing myself.’

  ‘Many military gentlemen are, I find, sahib.’ Smiling and salaaming, Govind left the room.

  Joe helped himself to a large glass of mineral water from a silver tray on his bedside table, then he unlaced his boots and kicked them off. He took off his socks and put his feet with a groan of satisfaction on cool marble tiles. He sat down on the bed and gave an experimental bounce or two then, throwing off his jacket and shirt, stretched out and closed his eyes. Probably a foolish thing to do but it had been a long day. A few moments to calm his racing mind before he got into his bath?

  A shiver in the air, the slightest sound of a stealthy movement and a sharp metallic click brought him back from the edge of sleep and alerted his swimming senses to the fact that he was not alone in the room. He opened his eyes and looked straight down the black barrel of his own pistol pointing steadily at the space between his eyes.

  ‘Well, aren’t you the careless one! If I had a gun like this I wouldn’t let it out of my sight!’ said an Indian voice speaking in cultured and fast English. The voice was male, young, unbroken. A child?

  Breaking free from the hypnotic fascination of the barrel, Joe looked along it to the small brown hand holding it so unwaveringly steady. Beyond that, an impish face looked back at him with scorn. A boy of ten or eleven, Joe guessed, dressed in a white silk buttoned coat, white trousers and a blue and white striped silk turban.

  ‘And you’re supposed to be a policeman, they tell me!’

  ‘And what are you supposed to be?’ said Joe, annoyed. ‘A burglar? The palace dacoit? No, I know what you are – you’re one of those thieving monkeys that break into guests’ rooms and steal their hairbrushes! Well, you left the window open, monkey!’

  Surprised, the boy looked sideways at the window and opened his mouth to make a rude reply, distraction enough for Joe to knock his hand away, grasp his wrist and with a quick heave, flip his slight frame over the bed, grabbing the gun from him as he rolled.

  ‘Get up, monkey, and sit down in that chair!’ Joe snapped. The boy picked himself up, straightened his turban and sat down, eyes fixed on the gun.

  ‘Never point a gun at someone unless you intend to kill him,’ said Joe, ‘even if, like this one, it is unloaded! And never pause to have a conversation with your victim. It shows you’re not serious. Anyone who needs to hold a gun to a feller’s head to make him listen is likely to bore his target to death rather than fill him full of lead.’

  The boy swallowed, glared at Joe and said haughtily, ‘As you are speaking to me at some length, though I would hardly call it a conversation, I assume that you have not been sent to murder me?’

  ‘Sent to murder you?’ Joe was stunned. ‘Who are you? And, perhaps more important, just what do you take me for?’

  ‘My name is Bahadur Singh. I am the son of Maharaja Udai Singh. The third son,’ he said with a pride that could not be concealed even by his obvious terror. ‘Bishan is dead and now Prithvi is dead. I am the next son. I think you have been sent to kill me.’

  ‘Why on earth should you think that?’ said Joe, putting the gun down on a small table by the door.

  ‘I searched your luggage and found the gun hidden. Who but a hired assassin would hide his gun?’

  ‘Is it a custom of yours to go through guests’ things?’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ said the boy, puzzled. ‘How else can I decide who I am going to like? Shall I tell you,’ he said, relaxing now that the gun had been put out of reach, his tone changing to one of confidence, ‘what Sir Hector Munro has in his smallest black bag?’

  ‘No!’

  ‘Well, then, what Mr Troop keeps in his shaving kit?’

  Joe was ashamed that his second ‘No!’ was a betraying split second slow.

  ‘And besides,’ the boy went on cheerfully, ‘you have the face of a killer.’

  Joe must have registered dismay at being so described because the boy hurried to add, ‘Oh, it’s a nice face. A very nice face but you look as though you are accustomed to fighting. Like Yashastilak.’

  ‘Yasha who? Who’s that?’ Joe felt he was beginning to lose the thread and the initiative in this exchange.

  ‘Yashastilak. My father’s favourite fighting elephant. He is old and ugly with many scars but he has won a hundred fights!’

  ‘Well, that’s something, I suppose,’ said Joe. He grinned, sat down on the bed and put his hands on hi
s knees in an unthreatening posture. ‘And you’re not far wrong. I was a soldier, Bahadur, in the recent war in Europe. A piece of shrapnel – that’s the casing of a shell – sliced through my face . . . here.’ He touched the unsightly scar which cut through his eyebrow and skewed the left side of his face. ‘And now I have to be careful not to scare the horses but that doesn’t make me a killer. I’ve killed men. But I’m no threat to boys who behave themselves. I’m here, if anything, to protect you. Sir George Jardine sent me and he asks to be remembered to you.’

  ‘Sir George! I have only met him once when he visited my father last year but I know he is my friend,’ said Bahadur. ‘I wish he would come again. He knows nearly as much about astronomy as I do and he taught me conjuring tricks.’

  ‘Ah, yes,’ said Joe drily, ‘he does that to us all!’

  ‘And he is very jolly!’ Bahadur went on with enthusiasm. ‘And full of mischief, my nanny says. He took a pot of treacle and a pot of honey to the top of the palace and poured them both out into the courtyard. He made me stand below and note what happened. The treacle won the race. It fell on to my turban! The purdah ladies in the zenana were watching and laughing. I told them it was a scientific experiment but they thought it was just a bit of fun.’

  ‘No reason why it can’t be both,’ said Joe.

  There was a catch in the boy’s voice as the memory of the past faded and the seriousness of his present situation came back to him. ‘I think I would feel safer if Sir George were here! You say you are his friend but how am I to know that is true?’