The Maharajah's Monkey

by Natasha Narayan

  Rose Nell was as good a friend as I’ve ever had.

  If I was not mistaken, a figure was watching me from the nearest barge. I hastened toward it and saw that it was a massive woman, wearing layers of thick smocks, her hair wrapped in a strip of dirty cloth. She had paused in her work, a steaming copper bowl of suds lay on the deck at her feet. Her eyes were suspicious, giving no indication that she would welcome a talk with me, but I persevered nonetheless.

  “Hello,” I called out politely. “I wonder if you might help me with something.”

  “’Pends what yer askin’,” the woman replied, making no movement toward me. From where I stood on the bank I had to shout to make myself heard.

  “I’m looking for someone. A man with a large mustache, a dapper little fellow.”

  Something glinted in the woman’s eyes and involuntarily she glanced to the side. She knew something, I could have sworn it.

  “I mean you no harm,” I said, trying to speak softly and respectfully. “Please, help me. I am a friend of the Coxons.”

  The woman’s face softened. Abandoning her washing she came toward me and I could see that she moved with a limp.

  “Tragedy what ’appened to Pete,” she muttered.

  I nodded, sympathetically. Rose’s father had an accident at work—he was killed by a swinging iron wheel and the whole family had left the boats to live somewhere up north.

  “I was a particular friend of Rose,” I said. “Have you any word of her?”

  The woman shook her head and all the while I had the feeling she was examining me, seeing if I would pass her test. I must have done so, for she said, “I feel half naked I do, just let me go inside and get decent. Me name’s Peg, by the by.”

  With these words, Peg turned her back to me and limped toward the cabin, entering her home by a small painted door, which she had to stoop to get through. I was surprised that Peg felt she had to change her clothes to talk to me. In a minute she reappeared and all became clear. Her worn smocks and grubby headscarf remained the same, but she was hoisting her skirts and I could see that her left leg was made of wood.

  “Peg Leg, that’s what they call me,” Peg said grinning. “Got the finest left leg on the ole canals, I do. Anyway, dear, what’s it you wanted to know?”

  I described Champlon in detail, trying to curb my impatience, for I couldn’t help feeling that time was passing. When I came to a stop, Peg looked at me in silence for a minute, a speculative glint in her eye:

  “Whassit you want, I wonder?” she asked, finally.

  “I just need to find the Frenchman,” I replied. “He’s a friend of my aunt’s and he has disappeared and left her in the lurch.”

  “Jilted ’er, has he? That’s what you get from trusting yer heart to one of ’em Frogs.”

  “You’ve got it wrong,” I protested, but Peg Leg was already continuing:

  “I don’t hold with foreigners, I don’t. Give me decent English folk any day.”

  Of course I should have held my tongue but the silliness of Peg’s comments annoyed me. I mean you can’t chose not to hold with everyone outside England. Like it or not they simply exist.

  “I’ll wager you don’t know any foreigners,” I protested.

  “’Course I do,” she replied indignantly. “Gorn up and down these canals, I ’ave. I’m a woman of the world. Come to that they even ’ave ’em in Oxford—an Indian in that barge yonder. A real sight ’e was.”

  “An Indian?” I asked, wondering, because it sounded most unlikely to have an Indian on the canal.

  “Great strapping fellow ’e was, always wore a bit of yellow cloth wound round his ’ead. Looked like a big tea cozy it did.”

  “It’s called a turban,” I replied. “I believe Indians wear them to protect their head from the sun. It is burning hot in the deserts of India.”

  “Well it’s not ’ot ’ere,” Peg remarked, casting her eyes to the heavens. A gray light was coming down from the sky on to the bright boats. It looked to rain or snow. A land of sunshine seemed very far away. “A right nincompoop he looked, goin’ round like a giant teapot.”

  All this talk of Indians was very interesting but it was a distraction from my search for Champlon. I had to focus, for I felt sure Peg knew something of the Frenchman. “Have you seen anyone like the man with mustaches that I described,” I pressed Peg.

  “Lor’ girl, can’t yer listen when I tell yer? That’s what I’m tryin’ to say. Them foreigners stick together. Frenchie was on the Indian’s boat. I seen them on the deck, arguin’ loudly. Shouting and screaming at each other, they were. Then they went inside. I lost sight of ’em, I did. Anyway I ’ad to get on wiv me work. Can’t stand around all day, I can’t. I can tell you one fing, I never seen such a lot of strange folk.”

  “When? When did all this happen?”

  She shrugged, a massive rolling motion in her vast shoulders: “’Bout two hours ago.”

  “Which one?” I asked urgently. “Which barge does the Indian live on?”

  Peg pointed one out to me, a few boats down. It had a strange name—the Oudalali—and was painted in eye-popping shades of turquoise and lime.

  “Thanks so much, Peg,” I called, hastening to move down the banks to the Oudalali. But the boat-woman called me back.

  “Yer too late!”

  I halted.

  “Ye won’t ’ave any luck,” she said. “They’ve scarpered. The whole lot of ’em ’ave cleared out.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “A carriage came for ’em. It took ’em, Frenchman, Indian, them two other gents, bags and baggage and all. I’ll bet yer we’ve seen the last of ’em. The Indian and ’is rascally goblin.”

  I stared at Peg confounded. “What do you mean goblin?” I asked. “Do you mean he had a dwarf?”

  “Worse than that. ’E had a bleedin’ monkey!”

  Things were coming together in my head. Those claw-like tracks leading from Champlon’s room to the river. Not made by some urchin at all, but by something far stranger. Something that could scale walls and dart through small openings with no problem.

  A monkey!

  Chapter Four

  “A monkey,” I stuttered. “Are you sure?”

  “I am.”

  “There aren’t any monkeys in Oxford.”

  “I knows what I saw.”

  “But what was it doing here?”

  “Thieving,” Peg snapped. “He’d steal the knickers from under yer bottom, beg your pardon, young lady.”

  I was glad the Minchin wasn’t here. She would have fainted at the word “bottom.”

  “There wasn’t anyfing that monkey wouldn’t nick. Not nothing. When he looked at yer, with them beady eyes, grinning away, he looked wicked through and through.”

  A thieving monkey. I had no time to lose. Thanking Peg Leg for her information I hurried to the Oudalali. The boat was moored to the bank with a strong chain, the windows covered with check curtains and the cabin door firmly closed. It looked deserted. It was a simple matter to climb aboard. I was met with an odd sight. The deck was littered with rubbish; piles of twigs and leaves made into nests, bits of bright paper and scraps of material. I tried the door and to my surprise it opened.

  At first glance the interior was typical of a canal barge. Paneled wood walls, a fold-down table and bunk. Gleaming pots and kettles. I’ve been inside many barges and I can tell you that they are usually cleaner than you would think, with cooking things, clothes, ornaments—all the meager possessions of a bargee—scrupulously tidied away. But this place was something very different. It looked as if it had been owned by a mad magpie. Vessels and possessions were flung hither and thither. Piles of shredded cloth and paper littered everything.

  It looked as though a hurricane had torn through the barge. Or there had been a vicious fight.

  A heap of multi-colored rags in the corner caught my eye. They were as higgledy-piggledy as the rest of the place, though seemingly of finer quality. I moved closer
and knelt down to take a good look. Yes, I was right. Pieces of ripped velvet—rippling midnight blue—and fine lace were among this pile. Not what you would expect to find in a simple barge. I picked idly through the shredded stuff wonderingly … Then most unexpectedly my fingers felt something cold and hard buried deep. I clasped the thing and drew it out. It glistened, even in the gloom of the barge. I walked over to the window and looked at it in the watery light. Made of a dull metal, it was inlaid with bluish chips, which I recognized as lapis lazuli.

  What could it be? A broken bit of jewelry? The handle of an antique teapot? I looked closer at the thing—and gasped. Most definitely, I recognized the engraving on the metal. This was a hieroglyph. An eye of Horus—also called a Wadjet eye … Could it really be? No, I told myself, it was simply too strange. But the more I stared at the curving piece of metal, the more I became sure. Yes, it was, it must be …

  This was part of an ancient ankh, or Egyptian cross, the pharaoh’s symbol of life.

  This adventure was becoming stranger by the minute. What kind of man keeps broken ankhs in a heap of rubbish? For that matter, how could someone forget such a fine thing, a fragment though it was. But then, perhaps it had simply chipped off the ancient cross and thus been overlooked. You see, I already read the clues. The lack of clothes and luggage in this place confirmed Peg’s story. The Indian had cleared out.

  Carefully I wrapped the ankh piece, if that was what it was, in a rag that I found on the floor and popped it in my pocket. I would show it to the others. But before I hurried back to my friends, I needed to question Peg Leg a little further. I had the feeling that barge woman knew more than she was letting on.

  “Where have you been?” Waldo demanded suspiciously. It was forty-five minutes later and the meeting in the Randolph was just winding to a close. Most of the press and audience had left but my friends were drooping by the door. Waldo and Rachel, in particular, are always complaining how bossy I am but it is interesting how aimless they become without me to take charge.

  “Nowhere in particular,” I said airily.

  “You’ve been up to something,” grumbled Waldo.

  “The usual.”

  “I know that smile. What’s the big secret?”

  “Have it your own way!” I paused a moment, just to tease. “Actually, some rather interesting things have been happening.”

  “I knew it,” Waldo groaned as the others burbled about it “not being fair.”

  While they were moaning about the injustice of Kit Salter having all the adventures, I drew the slip of lace out of my pocket and unwrapping it, held out the fragment to my friends. In a shaft of light from the Randolph’s chandeliers it gleamed mysteriously.

  “What now? You’ve become a cracksman?” Waldo said, greedily plucking the fragment out of my palm, while I ignored his jibe. Obviously I do not shin up drainpipes to steal people’s treasures.

  He held the metal up to the light and we all stared, entranced. I marveled that I could have thought, even for a moment, that it was worthless. This was a piece of a rare and beautiful antique.

  Waldo suddenly let out a peal of laughter. “We’ll be rich,” he chortled.

  “Less of the ‘we,’” I said sharply. “I found it.”

  “Where exactly did you find this, Kit?” Rachel demanded.

  “Why?” I asked, stalling for time.

  “Don’t you ever read the newspaper?”

  We followed Rachel to the hotel’s lobby where she picked up a copy of The Times from a table. Next to a headline reading: ANCIENT MAP TO “EARTHLY PARADISE” DISCOVERED IN INDIA, was the following report:

  FAMOUS LADY EXPLORER AMELIA EDWARDS ROBBED

  TREASURES WERE GIFTED TO THE CROWN QUEEN VICTORIA “UNAMUSED”

  There was shock yesterday at the news of a robbery of Egyptian treasure belonging to the renowned lady explorer, Amelia Edwards. The robbery took place in a warehouse in the Egyptian capital, Cairo, where Miss Edwards was storing her collection, as she waited for it to be shipped back to England.

  Guards were alerted by flickering lights in the warehouse and the noise of crates being moved. They intercepted the robbers, and shots were fired before the thieves made off.

  When the treasures arrived in England, Miss Edwards found that some of her most precious treasures were missing. These included a scarab dating back to the reign of Thutmose 11, a sarcophagus inlaid with gems and gold and a rare and beautiful ankh from the first dynasty.

  “I am terribly upset,” Miss Edwards told our reporter. “I was planning to give the ankh personally to Queen Victoria and the sarcophagus to the British Museum.”

  “Yikes!” I gasped breaking off, for my eye had caught the drawing of the ankh below the news report. “It’s the same one.”

  “I know.” Rachel nodded. “I recognized it as soon as I saw the cross.”

  The pieces of the puzzle were, if not exactly coming together, at least starting to form some sort of picture. But goodness, it was a confusing one. Champlon’s disappearance. The man with the turban. Now Miss Edwards’s ankh. I felt the strong pull of distant shores behind all this: Egypt … India. Which one was it? Swaying palm trees and burning deserts? Or Maharajahs and priceless jewels? In some muffled way these lands of heat and spice were calling to me. My pulse quickened with excitement.

  “Kit, you can’t have … er … just … found part of Amelia Edwards’s stolen ankh.” Rachel looked at me pointedly.

  “That’s exactly what I did,” I said, grinning.

  “How?”

  “I’ve a pretty good idea of some, well, not person exactly. No, some thing, that is mixed up in it.”

  “Spit it out then.” Waldo scowled.

  “Hold on. We should be getting home. We don’t want the Minchin to make it back before us.”

  “You’re just pretending,” Waldo muttered.

  As we made our way through St. Giles to our home in Park Town I filled my friends in on my adventure. Waldo was annoyed to have missed the fun, though he was forced to agree that the monkey was mixed up in the theft of the ankh. Rachel was all for going to the police straight away, but I had other concerns: I explained what I’d learned from Peg Leg about the hansom cab that had taken the Indian, a seemingly willing Gaston Champlon and several mysterious trunks away.

  We had urgent work to do, if we were to find out why Champlon had been kidnapped. You see, I didn’t believe Peg’s description of Champlon walking happily to the cab, I was certain that the Frenchman had not left my aunt of his own volition. Someone was coercing him. The mysterious Indian must be blackmailing him.

  I was walking with my friends past the ancient sweep of St. John’s College, when I had an interesting notion about the identity of the Indian in the canal barge. Was my idea likely? Could I have stumbled on something important? Suddenly a low whistle from Isaac drew me up short. A lady was leaning against the stone walls, her shoulders heaving, her face mostly hidden by hair. She pushed a strand away and I realized the woman was Miss Minchin. She had been crying. Her face was all crumpled, her eyes reddened. Her hands were playing convulsively with something, a scrunched-up piece of paper, which I recognized with a pang of dismay as my forged love letter. She was completely oblivious to the stares of passers-by, lost in her own unhappiness.

  “Not so clever now, are you?” a voice behind me murmured.

  “I know, I know,” I said fiercely, to pre-empt a lecture from Rachel. “I shouldn’t have written it.”

  My friend’s face expressed exactly what she thought. The others were also looking accusingly at me as if it was all my fault, when Isaac and Waldo had goaded me on so. Anger boiled inside me. It was a joke, a joke. At the same time my stomach felt hollow and I had an unaccountable impulse to burst into tears. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I wanted to howl but I was silent and I could feel that my face was sullen.

  Why was it always me in the wrong? Why couldn’t Rachel be nasty or insensitive for a change?

  Rach
el’s burning eyes made my insides feel watery.

  “I’ll go over to her,” I said, my voice wavering a little. “I’ll confess. Tell her I’m sorry.”

  Rachel shook her head.

  “No. That’ll just make things worse,” she said. “I’ll see Miss Minchin back. Be off! Home! Now!” With that Rachel glided over to the wall. We saw her put her hand on Miss Minchin’s arm and our governess look up, bewildered.

  I began the walk home. The two boys dawdled, avoiding my eyes and whispering. I didn’t care anyway, I told myself. But in truth I felt awful. Who would guess that Miss Minchin would take a silly prank so to heart? We went past the colleges on to the broad sweep of road which marks the beginning of our suburb. Still my friends hung away from me, as if I had a contagious disease. Part of me paid no heed; if they wanted to shun me now, so be it. Then suddenly I snapped, and a wave of rage washed over me.

  This disaster was their fault, just as much as mine. I hadn’t wanted to make Miss Minchin cry.

  Finally outside our villa in Park Town I could bear it no longer. I turned around and walked savagely up to them. They were standing close together, wearing the same serious expression.

  “What?” I demanded hotly.

  Waldo shrugged.

  “You egged me on!”

  “I never—” Waldo began but Isaac laid a hand on his arm.

  “All right,” Isaac said calmly. “We’re all responsible. We’re all thoughtless. What we have to work out is how to make it right.”

  “I’ll apologize of course,” I muttered. “Tell her it was a joke.”

  Waldo shook his head. “That won’t help.”

  “We’ve another plan,” Isaac added.

  “What?”

  “We, and especially you, Kit, are going to have to be extra nice to Miss Minchin.”

  I nodded.

  “It gets worse,” Isaac said, and he was not smiling. “You’ll have to make it up to her. There’s only one way you can really do it.”

  “What’s that?”

  “You’ll have to find Miss Minchin a husband.”

  “I hope you’re joking. How can I find her a husband?”