The Maharajah’s Monkey
Natasha Narayan was born in India but emigrated to England at the age of five. She has had many jobs in journalism including working as a war correspondent in Bosnia. Like Kit Salter, Natasha loves traveling and exploring new places. She hopes to get to see some of the far flung deserts and mountains of her heroine—even if it’s by bus rather than camel and yak. She lives in Oxford.
By the same author
The Mummy Snatcher of Memphis
A Kit Salter Adventure
The Maharajah’s Monkey
Natasha Narayan
New York • London
© 2010 by Natasha Narayan
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The Maharajah’s Monkey
Part One
Chapter One
“Measles.”
“Tomatoes.”
“Radish.”
“‘Your lips are rosier than any radish,’” Waldo said, in a pompous voice. “Hmm. Not bad at all. Go on, Kit. Put it in the letter.”
“A rotten radish,” Isaac added, grinning.
“Hush,” I hissed. “Some of us are trying to concentrate.”
My friends clustered around, pelting me with suggestions, as I forged a love letter to my governess. I kept half an eye on the schoolroom door as I worked. This thrilling note was just the sort of thing a tall dark stranger might dash off, a figure from one of those romantic novels my governess devoured under her bedclothes. I could imagine him clasping Miss Minchin in his arms, while covering her upturned face in burning kisses. My governess would be wearing a trailing organdie gown and, for once in her life, a smile!
If only he existed.
If only I, Kit Salter, could bring the character I had dreamt up to life! He might even offer to marry my governess, freeing the four of us from endless lessons and even more endless nagging.
“Miss Celestina Minchin, your skin is whiter than a lily, your eyes are bluer than a periwinkle, your lips redder than a—”
My pen had come to a halt. Obviously Miss Minchin’s lips were not redder than a radish, that was hardly romantic. I needed inspiration. How to describe them? To tell the truth, they weren’t exactly lovely. Usually they were snapping at me or pursed in a grimace. Not the kind of lips to inspire love letters.
“If you don’t like measles or tomatoes,” said Waldo, in a sulky voice, for he always loves to take charge. “How about blood! The Minchin’s lips glisten like a pool of fresh blood!”
“I’m not trying to give her nightmares,” I explained gently. “It’s meant to be a love letter. I know. I’ll compare her lips to a rose.”
“Boring!” they chorused.
“Some roses are pink,” Isaac added. “A kind of horrible peachy color like a baby’s bottom.”
Meanwhile my best friend Rachel sat apart from the rest of us, arms folded in disapproval. She glared at me, her brown eyes trying to pierce my conscience. I knew she disapproved of the joke, for you see, Rachel cares. She is always considerate of other people’s feelings. But I ignored both her looks and my conscience. If I listened to that pair of killjoys I would never have any fun.
“We’re running out of time, Isaac,” I urged. “The Minchin will be here any minute.” Taking up my pen again I continued in the same dashing handwriting.
“Your lips are redder than the reddest rose. You are celestial indeed, Miss Celestina …”
“What does ‘celestial’ mean?” Waldo interrupted, peering over my shoulder.
“Heavenly,” I snapped. “It’s a joke. A pun on her name, Celestina.”
“Not a very good one.”
I ignored him, for what does Waldo know about puns? Quickly I scrawled:
You shine brighter than the Morning Star. I would be in heaven at just one glance from your eyes. My dear lady, I implore you, meet me at the entrance to the Ashmolean Museum on the stroke of ten this morning and I will pluck up the courage to offer my heart.
Your secret and devoted admirer.
Sir X
PS No insult to your reputation is intended. You may bring a chaperone if it pleases you.
I had no fear that my governess, the Minchin, would recognize the handwriting. Forget embroidery and the piano, one of my finest accomplishments is the ability to disguise my hand. I have forged sick notes from my papa and grocery bills from our housekeeper. I thrust the note in the envelope and sealed it, hurriedly placing it on her desk and scurrying back to my place. Just in time, for I heard the sharp clack of my governess’s heels on the steps outside as she swept in with a flurry of crinoline.
“Good morning, my little lambkins,” she greeted us, as if we were babes in the nursery. She paused and looked at me. “Are you quite all right, Kathleen? You look uncommonly flushed this morning.”
I frowned, annoyed that, as usual, she called me Kathleen. My name is Kit, pure and simple, Kit Salter. No one else calls me by the girlish name of Kathleen, so why does she persist in it? Rachel could lecture all she liked. Quite frankly the Minchin deserved to be taken down a peg or two.
“I have a twinge of indigestion this morning, Miss Minchin,” I muttered.
She stared at me suspiciously. “You haven’t been banting, have you?”
“Certainly not,” I replied. “Only nincompoops bant! Starving yourself just to be thin! Just to be able to fit into some silly old corset! Giving up puddings and chocolate cake and ices and caramels and—”
“And those delicious chocolate tiffins they sell at Bunter’s cake shop,” Isaac added helpfully.
“And sherry trifle,” I continued. “I just love sherry trifle and—”
“That’s enough,” Minchin snapped, a hungry look in her eyes. “I would have you know I bant myself; very occasionally, of course. Purely a question of health, you understand, I have no vain interest in being slim. If your digestion is really upset, may I recommend Beecham’s Powders? They have certainly helped me. Now. To work.”
Clacking and whooshing around the schoolroom like a starving ghoul, the Minchin distributed our grammars and workbooks. It was only when she returned to her desk that she noticed the lavender envelope lying on her desk. Glancing up from my work, I watched her open it. As she read the message, she flushed, as the anonymous writer of her love note would put it, “redder than the reddest rose.” The flush started in her cheeks and traveled down her neck, till in truth, she did look like a tomato. Or a measle. She half rose from her chair and then s
ubsided down again. Her lips trembled. I looked at Waldo. His eyes were shining, as were Isaac’s, but Rachel turned a troubled face toward me.
“Children, I find I have an urgent communication to attend to,” the Minchin said, rising unsteadily from her seat. “I have just this minute received a note from the … my … um … aunt.”
“Nothing serious I trust?” I said, in my most concerned voice.
“Not at all,” she replied, too quickly. “Well—at least, one hopes not. She has a weak heart. One cannot be too careful. Pray continue with your work.”
With that the Minchin swept out. To my surprise she didn’t go downstairs, but up, toward her bedroom.
“Send her our very best wishes!” Waldo called after her, before turning to us. “That woman could lie for the Empire,” he said admiringly.
Well, it served the Minchin right. She always treated me as if I were a bad smell. Even worse was her habit of trying to mold me into a polite young lady, like a lump of common clay.
“The Minchin’s gone up to her bedroom. She’s seen through the trick,” I added.
“Hold your horses,” Waldo said, talking like the American cowboy he is at heart. “She’ll be back in the saddle.”
He was right. A little later we saw the Minchin tripping down the stairs, though she was far too preoccupied to notice us. My, what a transformation, though hardly for the better! Her hair was done up in a bun from which she’d teased little tendrils of hair to cascade down her scraggy and powdered cheeks. Two patches of what I suspected were beetroot juice stood out like spots of fever against the white cheekbones. Her frame was squeezed into the tightest corset possible, under a rose damask tea dress. She looked like a girl going to her first ball, until you noticed the set, almost desperate, gleam in her eyes.
“I don’t think it’s very kind to mock Miss Minchin like this,” Rachel said quietly, as we watched her clack unsteadily downstairs.
“Why ever not?” I demanded. Underneath my bluster, though, I was a little disturbed. It was only a joke and there had been such a glitter in the Minchin’s eyes.
“Miss Minchin is nearly thirty years old.”
“Why should I care?”
“At her age she is unlikely ever to get married.”
“So what? I don’t want to get married. Not ever. Aunt Hilda isn’t married and she has a fabulous time.”
“Miss Minchin hasn’t the money to go exploring, Kit.”
I was silent for a moment, as I realized that lack of money might mean taking on an unpleasant job. Like being a governess to me. Then I rallied. I simply could not give in to Rachel’s preaching:
“Why does everyone talk of marriage as if it is the only thing a girl can do? It just means exchanging the orders of a father for those of a husband.”
“When did your father ever order you around?” Rachel asked, raising her eyebrows in mock astonishment. “You’re the only person who gives orders around here. Apart from your Aunt Hilda, of course.” But I’d had enough of Rachel. Ignoring her I called out to my real friends.
“Come on, Waldo and Isaac, let’s go to the Randolph Hotel.”
“What for?” Waldo asked.
“Don’t you remember? Aunt Hilda and Gaston Champlon are announcing their new trip. The formation of the first Anglo–French Exploration Partnership. They might be going to Africa or even Outer Mongolia. There’s bound to be newspapermen and everything, a terrific fuss!”
The others followed me, Rachel dragging her heels as usual. Why was I lumbered with such a goody-two-shoes best friend? Rachel needs no lessons in kindness, but what had happened to her sense of fun? Can’t a person have a joke now and then? Did she always have to look at me as if I were a particularly thoughtless slug? My mind was whirling with resentment against my friend as we thundered down the stairs, but I suddenly drew up short.
Two burly strangers were lounging outside the drawing room. The faces were burned raw and they wore army uniforms. They brought a whiff of heat and dust into our home. Where could they have come from?
“Hello, miss,” one of the men greeted me.
“Who are you?”
“We’re with the Memsahib,” he replied. I was puzzled for a moment, till I remembered memsahib was the name for the British ladies who helped rule our Empire in India.
I heard my father’s voice through the door, calling out to me. I went in to the drawing room and there he was, Dr. Theodore Salter, perched on the sofa in his oldest trousers and a moth-eaten jacket. Opposite him was a skinny lady, with prominent eyes and a neck like a camel. Clearly the Memsahib. I couldn’t keep my eyes off her neck. When she talked, her Adam’s apple rolled up and down like a restless cricket ball. Slumped next to the lady was an angelic boy, with shoulder-length hair—shining golden curls—framing a pale face.
“Who are those men outside?” I burst out as I rushed into the room.
“Our protectors!” the skinny lady replied, raising her eyes to heaven.
“Pardon?”
“Our lives are threatened. We are guarded by the Crown’s soldiers day and night.”
“Kit,” my father put in. “This is Mrs. Spragg. She is recently returned from India with her son Edwin.”
“My husband is the Resident—that means Queen Victoria’s personal representative, you know—in Baroda, India,” Mrs. Spragg informed us. “Poor dear Edwin suffers so much with the heat and the mosquitoes we’ve decided to educate him here in Oxford.”
My mind boggling, for I couldn’t imagine why this woman needed to be guarded, I glanced at Edwin. He was sallow as a bowl of whey, in his velvet sailor suit and looked as if he had never been out in the sunshine in his life, never mind the heat of India. I instantly decided Edwin was a drip. I hoped he would not be joining us for lessons. Just our luck to be foisted with someone even less fun than Rachel.
“Darling Edwin is so advanced. Such a marvelous little prodigy. You know, Professor Salter, he learned to read when he was just four years old!” Mrs. Spragg said to my father.
Papa, who was probably reading Latin in the womb, didn’t respond.
“As you can imagine, we all realized that we had someone really special on our hands.”
“Why?” asked Papa, who is sometimes very slow on the uptake. Without bothering to reply, Mrs. Spragg, world authority on Edwin, went droning on.
“You never saw such a reader as Edwin. My, how he devours his books. He can read a whole book in an evening. Not childish amusements such as story books, any more. At the moment he’s in the middle of that historian. What’s his name? Thomas Carlyle. Such an elegant writer, Edwin always says!”
“Do you not find Carlyle a little emotional?” my father asked the boy, interested.
Darling Edwin mumbled a reply, which I could not hear.
“I must say I favor Gibbon,” my father went on. “By the way, do you want a macaroon?”
Papa held out a tray of the treats. Cook makes them especially well, with plenty of sugar and soft, flaked coconut. Edwin reached out his hand greedily, but Mrs. Spragg snatched the tray away.
“Edwin couldn’t possibly,” she gasped. “His digestion is so delicate, you understand. Just a little of the wrong thing leads to the unmentionables.”
“Why unmentionable?” Papa, who was being more than usually slow, asked the boy, who replied with relish:
“Looks like hot chocolate.”
“Pardon?”
“Diarrhea.”
Mrs. Spragg hurried on, talking loudly over their voices: “Of course after all the trouble in India we couldn’t leave Edwin in that heathen country a moment longer. I won’t stand for violence! His health is so delicate it would be—”
“What violence?” I interrupted, aware that my friends were hovering, restless to be away.
“Didn’t you hear about it? The Maharajah of Baroda, that wicked man, he tried to poison my husband! He invited us all to the palace for tiffin. The bearers brought out the cakes and sherbet, a lovely spread. But th
e rotter had put arsenic, diamond dust and copper in my husband’s lemon sherbet. A wicked concoction.”
“How dreadful,” I gasped.
“That isn’t the worst of it. Poor dear Edwin took the cup laced with arsenic, he nearly died! He lay on the floor, foam coming out of his mouth!”
They didn’t need arsenic to kill Edwin, I thought, glancing over at the pale boy on the sofa. A puff of wind would do it.
“What happened to him?” I asked.
“Edwin took weeks to recover and I fear still—”
“I don’t mean Edwin,” I interrupted. This woman could talk of nothing but her son. “The Maharajah, the poisoner—what was his name?”
“Malharrao? I’m convinced he is a madman. Well the British arrested him, of course. He was charged with attempted murder. He was brought to England by steamer to stand trial. But the horrifying thing is—” she stopped dramatically.
“Yes?” I prompted.
“On arrival at Liverpool, Malharrao was put in Walton Jail.”
“A fearsome place,” my father said. “Impossible to break out of.”
“But he did. He simply walked out of his cell—it was found by the warder with the door swinging open, empty!”
“Extraordinary,” I breathed. “But how did he escape?”
“It is a complete mystery. But one thing is for sure—” she paused dramatically.
“What?” I asked.
“He must have had outside help.”
“Perhaps he was a lockpick,” I said. “There are people like that—think of the great escapologist John Nevil Maskelyne.”
“Absolutely impossible,” Mrs. Spragg insisted. “No, there is the stench of corruption about this case! The jail authorities found a single gold sovereign under his bunk. The jailers must have been bribed. There is money at the back of this. Someone with money—someone who could pull strings wanted the Maharajah out of that jail.” Mrs. Spragg glanced around warily, as if even here there might be spies, listening. “We’ve been warned that Malharrao might come after us. That is why we have to be so very careful with Edwin.”
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