The Palace Tiger Page 8

  This was party chatter. Joe knew she was not particularly interested in hearing his reply, she was just giving him an impression of her character, her position and her special influence with the ruler in the few minutes that were allocated to each guest at such a gathering. She could have summed it up in seconds, he thought: sophisticated, powerful, spoiled. Something needled him into refusing to turn this into a pas de deux.

  ‘I can solve your problem and save your marriage in a word, Your Highness,’ he said with a confident smile.

  ‘Oh, indeed?’

  ‘Golo!’

  ‘I beg your pardon . . . I don’t understand . . .’

  ‘That was the word. As you say, the extent of the field required is the same for both sports. Both are played with a club. Run them together! Gentlemen (or ladies) must play golf on horseback. You can call the new game “golo”. Invent a pair of trousers to play it in . . . let’s call them, er, “ranipurs”! Why not? And there you are – we have the new jodhpurs! The sport will be all the go on three continents in no time at all.’

  Shubhada stared at him with incomprehension. She began to edge away from him, making distancing movements and finally saying, ‘I see my husband is about to leave. He is quickly fatigued. Excuse me if I go to him, Commander.’

  When she was out of earshot Lizzie snorted. ‘Scored an own golo there, I’d say, Sandilands! She rather hates you because you didn’t take her seriously. Now why didn’t you play along? Anyone would think you’d taken against 3HH?’

  ‘I’ll tell you something, Lizzie,’ said Joe confidentially. ‘Anyone would be right! Oh, dear! I’m not sure Sir George’s training has quite taken yet. Under all this southern English slather there’s a bolshie borderer lurking still.’

  ‘I’m very relieved to hear it!’ said Lizzie. ‘Look around you carefully, Joe. Look at the cast of characters around the maharaja. He’s dying . . . I suppose you know that . . . and his death will change everything. People will find their positions, their lives even, changed overnight. And perhaps someone is taking hold of events before the event. There’s a lot at stake, Joe.’

  ‘And much depends on the succession. Has Udai Singh made a statement on his decision? Dropped a hint?’

  ‘Nothing. Not a word. And, you know, that’s very odd . . . it’s almost as though he’s waiting on events himself. Waiting for something anyway.’

  Chapter Eight

  Their hissed conversation was interrupted by the arrival at their side of Sir Hector solemnly bearing a candle in a golden cup. ‘I say, wasn’t Her Highness waiting for a light?’ he said. ‘Had to go about her hostess’s duties, I suppose. Young girl like that shouldn’t be smoking anyway . . . ruin her throat . . . It’s Sandilands, isn’t it? The detective? Look. I’d rather like to talk to you. Professional matters . . . sure you understand . . . Tomorrow morning be all right?’

  Joe smiled. ‘Sir Hector, I’ll be delighted to put you on my list!’

  The moment had arrived for Claude to cough discreetly and gather the attention of the six men and four ladies who made up the dinner party. The maharaja’s retirement to the zenana had left him to play host and Third Her Highness, now returned to the company, stood by as Claude paired the guests off and asked them to follow him through to the dining room.

  The party moved through into a smaller but equally brilliant room where a massive crystal table had been laid for ten in the European style. The room was of double height and lit by candles and oil lamps and, overhead, an electric chandelier from the hand of the same designer struck glints from silver cutlery and delicate glasses. In the high ceiling, fans swished rhythmically, keeping the atmosphere, if not cool, at least tolerable. The illusion of coolness was heightened by the blue and white colours of the painted walls and the pale, shining beauty of the white eggshell stucco floor. Taking in the refreshing scene, Joe thought that if only they could have devised a way of reducing the temperature dramatically, he might have fancied himself in the heart of a glacier.

  Joe noticed that Claude had offered his arm to Shubhada, perfectly correctly, as she was the highest-ranking lady and would expect to take her place at the foot of the table opposite Claude who would be seated at the head. Joe did not quite like to see the way Shubhada’s eyes had slid over the equally expressionless features of Lois Vyvyan who was assigned to the arm of Sir Hector. Did Lois resent the perpetual social downgrading she inevitably suffered, or had she come to terms with her husband’s powerful position and her own supportive but shadowy role?

  Joe was thankful to be asked to take in Madeleine and hurried to clamp her trembling arm under his, sensing that, after three rapidly drunk glasses of champagne, she was hardly able to steer a straight course. As he eased her into her chair (incredibly, even the chairs appeared to be made of crystal), he glanced around the table, curious to see how the Vyvyans had managed the seemingly impossible task of seating this disparate group. He found himself between Madeleine on his left and Shubhada on his right and prepared himself for an awkward evening. His worst expectations, however, were not realized. A glance at the eloquent grey eyebrows of Sir Hector sitting opposite was enough for him to receive the message ‘Watch out! Squalls ahead!’ and the two men set out to be cheerful and garrulous. Madeleine soon sank into silence, wrapped in her own thoughts, and Shubhada, feeling no obligation to rival her or cut her down to size, ignored her completely and tailored her conversation to suit the determinedly jolly and inconsequential chatter of the men on either side of her.

  Lois Vyvyan was on the doctor’s right and directly opposite Madeleine. Completely at ease, she was managing at once to talk to her neighbours and, with discreet nods and gestures, to direct the serving team. Watching her covertly, Joe was finding himself more and more intrigued and was beginning to think he might have to revise his first unfavourable impression.

  Shubhada might be sitting in the first lady’s position at the table but it was Lois who addressed the guests as the first dishes were brought to table. ‘You’ll find we’re dining in European style this evening,’ she announced. ‘Udai has recently engaged a chef straight from the kitchens of the Georges Cinq in Paris and we have the honour of being the first to sample his skills. He has the reputation of being particularly inventive in his cooking of game and promises me that his smoked haunch of wild boar, which I am hoping will make an appearance later, is unparalleled. When did you last dine at the Georges Cinq, Commander? Perhaps you will be able more accurately to judge the standard than those of us who are not so recently come out to the East?’

  ‘I’m afraid the best I can offer,’ said Joe easily, ‘is the cuisine of the officers’ mess in the Rue St Pierre . . . A little uneven in quality . . . Though the wild boar my sergeant killed in the Ardennes forest and spit-roasted over an open fire was good. The wild thyme we scattered on the dried mule dung we used as fuel seemed to add a little je ne sais quoi. Yes, Mrs Vyvyan, I’ll be the judge of your wild boar.’

  Conversation at once began to rumble around the table concerning the best method of killing wild boar and other luckless game and Joe again wondered what quality it was that Lois Vyvyan possessed that so annoyed him. Normally of equable character, he was not easily needled into making a brisk reply but there was something about her challenging manner towards him that made him respond like a naughty schoolboy. Could she have formed a dislike for him so early on in their acquaintance? There was some emotion, he detected, lurking behind her frosty good manners but it only extended to him. He compared her chilly attitude to himself with her concern for Madeleine who was moodily pushing her first course around on the plate with a fork and failing to eat a single bite of the meltingly delicious terrine mousseline. Quietly, Lois Vyvyan leaned forward and suggested that an omelette might be brought instead. Madeleine flushed, smiled, shook her head and made a better pretence of eating. Smoothly Lois resumed her conversation with Stuart Mercer, seated on her right and, curious to hear what these two could have in common, Joe listened with half an ear. T
hey appeared to be talking about Paris where Stuart had spent some time at the end of the war. Typically, in her well-bred way, Lois was not drawing him out on his wartime experiences; the blood and chaos of war were unsuitable topics. They were exploring the safer territory of his post-war impressions of life in the French capital. Lois showed the correct degree of awe and disbelief as Stuart recounted how, egged on by his friends, he’d flown his plane between the legs of the Eiffel Tower. She went on to question him on heights and air speeds and appeared to understand Stuart’s replies which was more than Joe could have claimed.

  Joe’s eyes moved with what he hoped would be interpreted as the unexceptional curiosity of a newcomer around the members of the group. His experience in Military Intelligence had taught him that valuable information was often given away by a look, a gesture, a hesitation, and he had grown into the habit of watching people interact with each other, picking up clues to their relationships and even motivations.

  Half-way through the first of the dishes, Shubhada’s table napkin slid from her silk-covered knee and fell at Joe’s feet. Instinctively, he bent to pick it up, only marginally faster than the waiter who also hurried forward. As Shubhada herself was also leaning over to retrieve it, Joe’s face, to her embarrassment, brushed her arm and they just, by a neck-breaking manoeuvre on Joe’s part, managed to avoid banging heads together.

  For a few minutes Joe lapsed into a surprised silence. Perhaps Lizzie might be able to give him the information he needed: had the Guerlain salesman paid a visit to the palace recently? He stored up with pleasure the thought of intriguing with Lizzie. It had been Shalimar. Definitely Shalimar. The slim brown arm had been touched with the spicy Parisian scent and he had caught a waft of it on her face or in her hair. His keen senses had caught the same perfume on Lois Vyvyan. Incongruous on the Lavender Lady, he had decided, but this perfume, exotic, yet sophisticated, a warm, mysterious cocktail, could have been created with Shubhada in mind. Were the two women aware of this clash? Perhaps they hadn’t even noticed.

  But surely Claude had?

  Or did Claude assume all female skin smelled like that? He looked again at Claude seated between Lizzie on his left and Edgar on his right. Claude leaned towards Lizzie listening with unfeigned interest to what she was saying, smiled and made a reply which caused her to hiccup with suppressed laughter. A natural charmer who didn’t even seem to be aware of it, Joe decided with a pang of envy. The best kind, the kind who had the confidence not to need to seek approval. He wondered if Claude had ever stood on a doorstep in a lather of indecision, uncertain of his welcome, shooting his cuffs, straightening his tie and swallowing? Joe couldn’t imagine it. The merry blue eyes, the clever slanting smile, the mop of hair, thick and shining as a young boy’s, must always have drawn attention and approval.

  Though not, he remembered, from Edgar. Wisely, Edgar had been placed between Claude and Colin O’Connor so no lady had the task of making polite conversation with him. He was happily yarning with his old tiger-hunting friend and in no danger of annoying anyone.

  At the end of the magnificent meal, which had indeed included a dish of wild boar that Joe pronounced ‘nonpareil’ and had ended with a range of sumptuous desserts including the recreation of Mount Everest in meringue, cream and chocolate, it was Lois who caught the eye of the ladies and murmured to Shubhada, ‘I think we are ready to withdraw, Your Highness.’ Shubhada rose to her feet and with gracious smiles led the small group of ladies from the room.

  At once, bottles of port and brandy and silver cigar boxes were laid on the table and the gentlemen, left to themselves, unconsciously stretched out their legs, ran a finger round their collars and surreptitiously eased open a button on their jackets. Voices grew gruffer and more animated. Edgar launched into a not-entirely decorous story and the first subdued laughter of the evening rippled around the table.

  A servant entered and spoke quietly to Vyvyan who nodded and sent him off again. ‘We are to be joined,’ he announced to the table, ‘for brandy by the Dewan who, as I expect you are aware, has been up to his ears sorting out today’s problems. Joe, you’re the only one who hasn’t yet met the Dewan, I think. He’s the maharaja’s older brother and you’ll see the family resemblance. Zalim Singh is . . . I suppose you’d call him prime minister . . . grand vizier . . . he plays Thomas Wolsey to Udai’s Henry VIII. Nothing much happens in the state of Ranipur that he doesn’t know about.’

  Did Joe imagine the slight flick of an eye in his direction as Claude said that?

  ‘The Rajput Sir George, are you saying?’ Joe began.

  ‘Oh, not in the same league, I’m afraid,’ said a deep and amused voice from the door.

  Zalim Singh came in smiling, expansive, confident of his welcome. Unlike his brother who had chosen to wear Western evening dress, Zalim was impressive in a white silk coat and trousers and jewelled turban, thick ropes of pearls around his neck, golden slippers on his feet. He was as tall as his brother, being well over six feet, but more massively built, and the impression of glowing good health and strength he gave out was at odds with Joe’s expectations of a man whose life of politician and courtier was lived out in the shaded corridors and antechambers of the palace.

  ‘“Grand vizier”, however?’ Zalim smiled. ‘Yes, I rather think I like that! I’m sure I’m no Thomas Wolsey, though I confess I am not conscious of the gentleman. Did he have a happy life?’ he enquired blandly. ‘Commander Sandilands?’ he added, picking out Joe. ‘A friend of Edgar’s, I understand?’

  His handshake was firm and brief, his smile warm. Joe reminded himself that the Dewan was known to have taken an excellent degree in History at Oxford. Settling companionably into the empty chair next to Joe, Zalim poured himself a brandy and accepted a cigar from Colin O’Connor. Joe had met men like this before: men who could light up a room with their presence. It was not an attribute solely of the wealthy or high-ranking: Joe remembered a private who, quite unconsciously, had had the same effect on whatever dug-out or filthy dark hole in the trenches he fetched up in. The barmaid at the King’s Head in Cheapside could have written a treatise on it – if she had been able to write. Joe’s housemaster would have called it ‘leadership’ but it was more than that. It had elements of optimism and humour and an ability to enhance the morale of any group in which they found themselves.

  Joe recalled Govind’s account of the lineage of the Rajput princes. They were of the Suryavansa, the Solar Race, he’d said. Everywhere on the palace walls Joe had noticed emblems of the sun: golden, smiling faces, beneficent and life-giving. He looked again at the broad cheerful face of Zalim Singh and saw a descendant of the sun god.

  He remembered the plaque mounted on a shutter above the elephant gate in the courtyard. How much more convincingly the face of Zalim Singh would have shone forth from the window on an overcast day than the ascetic features of his younger brother.

  Joe determined as soon as convenient to ask Edgar to fill in the background of the previous succession for him. How had it happened that such an obvious choice for leader as Zalim had been passed over for his younger brother? Did he resent it? And now that the present ruler was growing weak and his days were numbered, had Zalim decided to take a hand in deciding the next succession? With the raja’s two legitimate sons both now dead, surely it was a straight run through to the gaddi for him? Joe looked again at the powerful golden and white presence at his side and a chill shiver trickled down his back as he remembered there was a third possible impediment in Zalim’s path to the throne. Bahadur. His illegitimate nephew.

  For a moment Joe’s head spun. He felt the dizzying disorientation of being thrust into an alien culture. This was not his world. Nothing here was truly familiar. Parisian chefs, Lalique crystal, Dow’s port, these were so much foam on the surface of deeply foreign waters.

  His brief from Sir George had been short and unsatisfactory. ‘Remember at all times, Joe, the treaty we signed with the prince of Ranipur in 1818 . . . Here – I’ve had a co
py made for you . . . you’ll find it interesting. I’m looking at Clause 8 . . . got it? I quote, “The maharaja and his heirs and successors shall remain absolute rulers of their country, and their dependants, according to long-established usage; and the British civil and criminal jurisdiction shall not be introduced into that principality.” Criminal jurisdiction – that’s where you come in, Joe – or rather where you don’t come in.’

  ‘Thank you for pointing that out, sir. I’ll leave my fingerprint kit and handcuffs at home. So, I’m being sent in in an advisory capacity only?’

  ‘Um . . . not even that, I’m afraid.’ Sir George had looked uncomfortable.

  ‘Does the absolute ruler have such a thing as a police force of his own?’ Joe enquired mildly.

  ‘Yes. But don’t count on any assistance from them,’ said George. ‘They wouldn’t recognize themselves as “policemen”. They are the Royal Guard. Bodyguards, henchmen, knives for hire, assassins on request. In fact, Joe, I wouldn’t be at all surprised if your target is actually among their ranks. But I mustn’t say more . . . it’s all speculation at best at this distance. That’s why you’re going with Edgar, my boy – to keep a watching brief and report back. No need to . . . er . . . go sleuthing about the place in a visible way, you understand. Could get you into a lot of trouble.’

  Joe had been running his eye down the treaty document with a good deal of interest. ‘I say, sir,’ he said, frowning, ‘have you seen this at the end of the treaty? It says, “Done at Dihlee this sixth day of January, AD 1815.” Signed and sealed by Mr Charles Theophilus Metcalfe, Resident. And the treaty is between the Honourable English East India Company and the Raja Maun Singh of Ranipur. The East India Company? Long defunct! Does this piece of paper still have relevance? Is it still legal?’