Of course no Zenana could contain Aunt Hilda, who announced:
“I am the most famous explorer in England, Your Majesty. You’ve heard of Hilda Salter? … Modern enlightened thought holds women to be as good as men. We don’t keep ladies locked away in Britain. All sorts of women are becoming doctors and so on. Many of them rather look up to me.”
I’m not sure how much of this speech the boy Maharajah understood, though he nodded politely. I saw his dewan whispering to him and then my aunt was introducing my father. Shortly after that, my aunt, never one to waste time, got down to business.
“Your Highness, your fame and goodness is known throughout the Empire. We have come here because we’ve heard of the exciting discovery in your grounds. We are dying to see Father Monserrate’s famous diaries. What a thrilling find! We have heard they include a map to Shambala—perhaps the way to paradise on earth.”
The Maharajah held up a chubby, glittering hand. Instantly all chatting and laughter in the court was stilled. The gesture was so unexpected it even silenced my aunt.
“NO,” he said.
“Pardon?” my aunt spluttered.
“Why should I allow you to see these things?”
“Er … I am a famous explorer; my brother Theo here is a renowned archaeologist.”
“You don’t want look. You want take,” the boy king declared.
My father had stepped forward. I saw he was trembling as he attempted to speak. “Your Majesty …” he managed to mutter before the boy interrupted:
“Britishers are always stealing India’s treasures.”
My aunt drew herself up to her full five feet: “Your Highness! We are not thieves.”
“Madam, you are most welcome to my palace. But not to my treasures.”
“I assure you, my interest in these old papers is purely scholarly,” my aunt protested.
“I believe you, madam. But even your great Queen Empress is …” he waved his hands around and then paused a moment for a whispered discussion with the Dewan. When he began again the Maharajah was grinning. “Even Queen Victoria is light-fingered. She has stolen India’s greatest gem, the Koh-i-noor diamond, from my brother Maharajah.”
My aunt was momentarily speechless. Perhaps to make up for his charge’s rudeness, the Dewan stepped forward, smiling. With a few gracious phrases he invited us all on a great shikar, or tiger hunt. We would start off for the jungle, tomorrow morning, at the very crack of dawn.
With that we were shown out of the court.
Gazing back at the palace we had left, I saw it was really the most splendid building, sprouting fairytale turrets, domes and minarets. Look a little closer and you could see the marks of woodworm, devouring the mighty wooden edifice from the inside. It might be a metaphor for the whole court, I mused. Glittering on the outside, but eaten up by greed and suspicion.
What a relief to be away from the court. Here in the glorious grounds, we could enjoy the plash of fountains and the screech of peacocks. Feast our eyes on vast banyan trees that sent misshapen limbs into the grounds, twittering birds and chattering monkeys. Instead of the birch trees and cedars that you would find in an English park there were mango trees—plump with juicy golden fruit—peepul and burning orange Flame of the Forest. The sweet scent of jasmine was everywhere. Truly we felt we had been transported into the pages of some exotic tale.
As we stood in the shade of the banyan tree growing over our lodge, Mr. Prinsep said, consolingly: “Do not fret about the journals. Most people would give their right hand to go on one of the Maharajah’s tiger hunts.”
“I have use for both my hands, thank you,” Aunt Hilda snapped. She paused a moment, letting Mr. Prinsep feel the full force of her anger. “I’ll tell you one thing for free, Mr. Prinsep, I consider your tinpot Maharajah most precocious. Not to say disrespectful!
“I will have that journal. Even if I have to break into the treasure vaults to get it.” With that Aunt Hilda turned her back on us and strode into the lodge. We all followed a little nervously, for my aunt in a mood is as dangerous as a rogue lion. As we entered the corridor I stopped and gasped.
There was an oil painting on the wall in front of me of an Indian reclining on a tiger skin, a rifle lying on his lap, a thick rope of pearls around his neck. He had a mustache almost as full as Champlon, this man. Something about the face under all that hair pulled me up short. That plump, pleasure-loving mouth, thin cheeks, sallow skin, was all familiar. Above all, the expression in the bulging eyes, reminded me of someone. The artist had captured exactly the look in the man’s eyes.
I had seen him somewhere very recently. Cleanshaven, but most definitely the same man.
“Who’s that?” I turned on Prinsep urgently.
“I thought they’d got rid of all the paintings of him,” he replied.
“Yes, but who is it?”
“That rotter Malharrao, of course. The old Maharajah.”
Chapter Ten
As we traveled toward the jungle in search of tigers the next morning, my mind was still buzzing with my discovery. Of course I hadn’t been able to keep it to myself. I instantly told the others I’d recognized Malharrao as the supposed “footman” disembarking from the steamer at Bombay. My aunt believed me, as did my friends. But I could tell Prinsep was skeptical. I felt frustrated with him, for the implications were huge.
It looked very much as if Malharrao—the wicked, former Maharajah of Baroda—had kidnapped Champlon and brought him to India. Why, I had no idea. I also had no real clue as to the identity of the two invalids in wheelchairs with the traveling party. I had my suspicions, though. Sick suspicions that were curdling in my stomach.
Could those two sick invalids be a pair of brothers we had met before? Rich, evil and ruthless, they were the perfect candidates to have sprung Malharrao from jail. But what did they want with him? Why, if it was indeed the Baker Brothers, were they in India? Where did the thieving monkey fit into all this? It was all most perplexing. I had questions, questions, questions—but so few answers.
In England I would have been able to make a better go of understanding it all, but India was so very foreign. The sights and smells of the palace bewildered me, the heaving mob of people outside the gates even more. The very air was different; hot and musky, filled with stinging particles of dust. With the royal party I was cocooned in luxury, swaddled in silk and ivory and fed fifteen-course meals. Outside the palace gates there was danger, rebellion, poverty. Yet it wasn’t as if we were so safe within the palace. Yesterday I had cannoned into a man lurking outside my door. His gold teeth glinted as he accepted my apologies, but the expression in his eyes made me shiver. Who was he? A bodyguard? A spy? I had no idea. There were so many undercurrents I was grasping to understand. High intrigue involving the fate of kingdoms and princes, and something more tantalizing in the background, something my fingers would clutch and then it would all slip away.
What could the plotters want with Champlon? What did he have to offer them? Then there were those threatening letters to me—oh, why couldn’t life be simpler?
“Kit! You’re talking to yourself.” Rachel prodded me in the side, while, sitting in the palanquin opposite me, Waldo grinned slyly.
“Oops, sorry.”
“Planning to solve the world’s problems?” Waldo asked. “All by your little self?”
Scowling slightly, I ignored him and glanced through the silk curtain that draped our golden palanquin. It was strange to be riding an elephant, but the beast had made good progress across Baroda. Through paddy fields and coconut groves, through villages of squat mud huts, till we plunged into jungle. Here the sights were so wonderful my worries fell away. We were engulfed by a canopy of trees, swarming with creepers and thick with the cries of exotic birds: racket-tailed drongo, paradise flycatcher, black-headed cuckoo shrike. The only sound I recognized was the reassuring tap-tap of woodpeckers.
As our beasts swayed under us, I spied a herd of antelope with the delicate legs of ball
erinas. They watched us from the edge of the clearing, their curling horns quivering, appearing too graceful to survive this jungle. Then, in a startled rush, they fled. Monkeys crashed through the branches overhead and once I thought I saw a flash of yellow and black spotted hide, a cheetah perhaps or leopard.
Finally we arrived at a tangled gully from which a bank sloped down to a water hole. At the moment it was a dried-out pit, only a little moist mud at the very bottom to show how it must swell during the monsoon rains. On the other side of the gully a screen of creepers draped the trees and bushes like enormous fronds of clinging seaweed. We were surrounded by the screech of parakeets, the whisper and crackle of prowling creatures: tigers, panthers, boar, black buck.
My father had been traveling with the Maharajah and my aunt on the other elephant. Now his head emerged, blinking, from his palanquin. “There’s nowhere to picnic,” he called, panic stricken at the idea of crouching in snake-infested grass.
“Nonsense.” The Maharajah waved his hand airily: “We will sit on God’s earth.”
It was all right for the Maharajah. His servants produced a charming gold chair for him to sit on. The rest of our party, which included Mrs. Spragg and her bodyguard, had to make do with rugs. The swaying motion of the elephant ride had obviously been a bit much for some of my friends: Isaac and the Minchin were both delicate shades of green.
The Maharajah dismounted and placed one arm round his favorite elephant, Sonali. A beast the size of an omnibus, with great baggy eyes, surrounded by rolls of wrinkled flesh, she looked at you so sadly you could have sworn she understood. The Maharajah stroked her flank lovingly, as he fed her slices of mango.
“Sonali, my little one,” he murmured to her, as he scratched her wrinkled hide. We watched a little nervously, for one swish of the elephant’s trunk would send us flying on to the forest floor. Her feet could crunch your skull like a teacup. The Maharajah turned and saw us watching him anxiously.
“Don’t fear.” He smiled. “Sonali does not hurt a mosquito … Go on, stroke her.”
This was a royal command. Waldo came forward, but I was quicker.
Which is how I came to stroke a real live elephant. Her skin felt scabby and rough, it was a little like patting an old leather bag. A beast that weighed over 7,000 pounds, but was gentle as a lamb. She curled her trunk with pleasure, as my friends and I patted her sides. She seemed to be smiling at us.
While the mahout tended to the beasts, the small army of servants that accompanies the Maharajah everywhere, even to the middle of the jungle, got to work. They unpacked a vast array of hampers: inside were silver tureens breathing steam, tiffin tins, jars of pickles and chutneys; bottles of fresh candy-colored sherbet. My mouth watered at the sight of the sumptuous spread. Even a picnic with a Maharajah was an impossibly grand affair.
“Mulligatawny!” the Maharajah announced to our party. “I know how you Britishers love your mulligatawny!” He pointed at one large tureen in which churned a pool of brownish liquid, floating with odd, slimy things. Stomach churning.
“Most thoughtful, Your Highness,” simpered Mrs. Spragg. “Mulligatawny is just the thing in this awful heat.”
It might have been just the thing for her but I loathe mulligatawny soup.
Of all the curious dishes I have tasted in this country, it is the worst, a weak mix of the dregs of English and Indian fare. Sadly Indians are convinced that us “Britishers” love mulligatawny, though it is so watery and plain horrid my gorge rises when I taste it. I cheered up a bit when I saw the servants unpacking the trimmings that go with mulligatawny. Quartered hardboiled eggs, shredded vegetables, cold slices of curried meat, savory poppadom biscuits and so on …
“Mmmm,” I burst out, catching a hint of a delicious, sweet spicy scent.
It was the steam wafting from the Maharajah’s huge plate of spiced rice. Arranged in small silver bowls around his plate were the condiments: sauces, chicken pieces, pickles, pastries, chutneys. My mouth watered looking at the Maharajah’s plate and I couldn’t help another small gasp of hunger escaping. Rachel glared at me warningly; she was convinced that all India was trying to poison us. It is true the poor girl has suffered from the upset stomach called “Delhi belly” since arriving. But my stomach is made of cast iron! The Maharajah noticed my greedy look and made a surprised movement, as if to offer me some.
But Mrs. Spragg stepped in: “No, dear Kathleen,” she snapped. “That will be far too spicy for you. Better stick to plain English food.”
I was about to protest when my aunt saved me.
“My niece Kit and I love your Indian cooking,” she announced to the Maharajah. “We would be honored to try some of your fare. What is this?”
“Chicken biryani,” he said, beaming.
Though Mrs. Spragg looked cross, I got the feeling the Maharajah was pleased. Smiling, he waved a hand at the servants and soon heaped plates were set in front of me and my aunt. Sitting on silken rugs we tucked in. The rice was fragrant with the sweet tang of coconut and raisins. The curry sauce rich and dense and the pickles so hot they burned the roof of my mouth. All in all it was one of the most gorgeous meals of my life and I can assure you I did full justice to it. That is to say I polished off my plate of food and had seconds and thirds, managing to ignore Rachel’s doleful looks. Indeed Waldo, Isaac and my slightly nervous father joined us in the meal, though Mrs. Spragg and Rachel were extremely suspicious.
Perhaps some day I will open an Indian curry eating-house in Oxford, for I am as adventurous with strange foods as foreign lands. It will introduce those timid souls brought up on a diet of boiled vegetables and suet pudding to the tempting treats of the Orient.
After the main course came puddings and here I must confess to disappointment. We had round pale sweets that tasted a little of condensed milk and were called “barfis.” They weren’t bad, better than the dry and crumbly orange things called “ludos.” Horrible. I must confess my mind went back to cook’s treats: creamy sherry trifle, or her cake—oozing melting chocolate, rich and moist.
Indian main courses may be tastier than ours; but I am glad to say that their puddings are not a patch on British ones!
Too soon the meal was over and we remounted our palanquins. Our convoy of elephants moved on, heading into the thickest part of the jungle. We were under a dense cloak of palms and creepers that grew over our heads, almost cutting off the light. The elephants moved with difficulty, trampling their way through the undergrowth, swinging their long tusks from side to side. Suddenly there was a screeching right next to my nose and a paradise flycatcher, exploded horizontally out of the bushes and zoomed away, trailing a blur of snowy tail feathers.
We were nearing the tiger hunt. The beaters had been out in force over the last few days, looking for tiger prints. They had spotted some in this part of the jungle and had tethered a live goat to a stake to attract the beast. They claimed it was deadly, a man-eater who had carried off a young girl from a nearby village.
We came to a clearing and the beaters gestured to us to be silent. The goat was chained to a stake by a tussock of grass on the edge of the clearing. Poor animal. All that remained of it was its head and a carcass, oozing blood. Only a savage creature could have done such damage to the goat. My breathing became more ragged, the thrill of the chase infecting me. Rachel, however, was disgusted. She turned her soft eyes on me and hissed:
“It didn’t have a chance.”
“Hardly my fault.”
“This isn’t about you, Kit. Imagine its agony.”
The chief hunter slid down our flank, followed by the Maharajah. Even here, in the midst of the jungle, he was a semi-captive, ringed by bodyguards alert for assassins. Waldo, my aunt and I stalked after them toward the tussock. Isaac, Rachel and the others preferred to watch the hunt from the safety of their palanquins. We crept on cotton-wool feet, for tigers do not give you second chances.
The hunter reached the tussock and signaled to us to come no nearer. We stopped. I
looked around. Out of the corner of my left eye, I caught a flash of orange in the midst of a thicket. Suddenly, something was surging toward me. Boiling eyes, ears flattened, claws outstretched. I lurched blindly as the tiger leapt at my face. A half-scream gurgled from my throat. I could hardly breathe. Choking, I cursed my aunt who had forbidden me to carry a gun. The Maharajah shrieked. Instantly his bodyguards clustered around him in a protective huddle, ignoring the tiger attacking me. A claw was at my face. It loomed before my eye as I cowered against the bush. A shot rang out. The claw fell, grazing my face. Another bullet went whistling past, so close it scorched my ear.
There was blood on my face. Then a thud on my feet. The tiger had fallen on to me, its body crumpling in a heap of black stripes.
“Thank you,” I sobbed, struggling away from the heavy beast, my left ear zinging from the bullet that had so nearly ripped it off.
The tiger was magnificent. It lay at my feet in death agony, its powerful muscles pulsing under its orange hide. It would have crushed my skull with one blow.
“Waldo, you saved my life!”
“It wasn’t me,” my friend yelled, wildly. “Where’d the shot come from?”
“Aunt Hilda?”
“Quiet, child,” she screeched.
Tension crackled in the air. The Maharajah’s five bodyguards encircled him, their eyes swiveling from side to side, searching for the gunman. Mrs. Spragg’s guard was at the side of the elephant where she was cowering in the palanquin. Somewhere, a twig crackled, setting my teeth on edge.
“Who fired?” I blurted. But almost as the words were out of my mouth another bullet spat out, whizzing past me. Heading straight for the Maharajah.
The Maharajah froze. Time hung suspended. The bullet was followed by another and then another. The bodyguards fired in wild panic. But these were like no normal bullets, they swooped and curved round the bodyguards. They made their way straight to the Maharajah, like pins flying to a magnet.
The Maharajah's Monkey Page 7
