“But zen in Cairo, robbers ’ad struck and half the collection ’ad been stolen from the warehouse before the guards chased—”
“I know,” I interrupted. “I read about this in The Times.”
“Oh—I see. Well, when the remains finally arrived in England, Miss Edwards found that an ancient mummy and my ankh were among the stolen items. My ankh, Kit. I saw a drawing of it in The Times that terrible morning. Definitely my ankh!” He paused a moment, then went on, “Well, I had not stolen it. I ’ad bought it fairly—”
“If you say so—” I mumbled, thinking of how he’d cheated my aunt. But Champlon continued: “I paced around my college rooms, my mind shattered. What was I to do? There was only one way out. A few weeks ago I ’ad been bargaining with a well-known collector for some of my antiquities. He seemed to know about my ankh. But I refused to sell. Now I would have to sell ze ankh—on ze quiet. But I was not happy, no not at all.”
You could have reported it to the police rather than trying to make money out of stolen goods, I thought. But I held my tongue and listened to his tale.
“I was dressing that morning in my college rooms, when suddenly a strange creature appeared. Gibbering, yabbering. A monkey. It pounced on my ankh which was lying on my chest. Grabbed it with dirty paws. I chase this monkey, down ze creeper, across ze college lawn, down to ze canal—and on to a barge. The owner is zere, an Indian. And two pale men. I know zem. ’Oo do you think it is, Kit?”
“The Baker Brothers,” I murmured.
He stopped a moment, reliving the moment. “A trap.” His voice trembled. “These brothers, zey kill me with zeir eyes.”
I nodded, recalling how Champlon’s wizardry with his pistol had humbled the brothers and left them fleeing from the scene of the ruined temple in Siwa.
“So I fight zis monkey. It is a beast, most ferocious, spitting, hissing. I seize my ankh back. It breaks. I stop, my heart is break too. One brother, ’e grab the monkey, make it stop. He take ze ankh. Then ’e tell me they have evidence I steal zis ankh from Miss Edwards. ‘No, No,’ I protest. ‘I buy this fairly from market.’ But the one with ruined face he just smile. ‘No one will believe you,’ ’e say in his wheezing voice. ‘After all, my brother and I are highly respectable, we are friends of the Prince of Wales. We will testify you are a contemptible thief. A lying, low-down, rotten, French thief stealing from treasures meant for ze Queen. Why, I have no doubt you will be tried for treason.”
“‘With any luck,’ say the other brother, ‘zey will hang you.’”
Champlon’s voice cracked as he relived the moment. “Believe me, Kit, I had no choice. They had me already on the guillotine. You see … well zere had been another instance …”
“Another instance of what?” I asked sharply, though I could well imagine. Clearly Champlon had double-crossed someone else before. Maybe he had even stolen something! Collectors have the loosest morals of anyone I know.
“Nothing was proved,” he replied swiftly. “I was a young man then … still … ze … mud, it sticks close.”
“What did you steal? How long ago was this?”
Champlon flushed, evading the questions: “Accusations, articles in newspapers. Even if I didn’t hang—they would ruin me. So, the rest you know, Kit. It was blackmail. Foulest blackmail. But I ’ad no choice. I would be finish. Your auntie would never forgive me … I’ve never met a woman like zis, zis Hilda Salter. She steal away my heart, Kit.”
“So you say,” I said sourly. My mind whirled. “You were never hypnotized. It was all a pretense … Gosh, Monsieur Champlon, you are the very best actor I have ever met.”
“I … am dazed, ze whole time,” he said hurriedly. “Like the monkey was in my ’ed.”
“Head,” I snapped automatically. “I’d believe you … if you hadn’t told us such a packet of lies. So let me get this clear. They, the old Maharajah Malharrao and the Baker Brothers, they made you assassinate the new King … little Sayaji.”
“I missed. I missed on purpose. Also, I saved you from the tiger, Kit. Don’t forget that!” His voice had sunk to a pleading moan.
“These criminals wanted little Sayaji out of the way for some reason,” I went on. “They had an elaborate plot to rid themselves of him—and so they blackmailed you. But why you? Why not just hire an assassin out here?”
“I asked myself that. Obvious, I am ze best shot in ze world.”
“We’ve heard quite enough about that,” I cut in.
“You ’ave to understand these men, ze Baker Brothers. Zey know how to hate, Kit. Later, I was with them on that ship, in the sick bay and I know it. They ’ardly spoke two words to me. I felt such ice in them it nearly froze my bones. I was a trapped bird. All zey wanted was to torture. It delight them to ’ave me wriggling in their power. Zey have never stopped hating me for making them small in Egypt, Kit, and zey never shall.”
He fell silent after this outburst. I thought back to Egypt: scorching sand, burning heat, miles of nothingness and two frozen men. Truly, they were artists in revenge, those brothers.
“But why do the Baker Brothers want to kill Sayaji?” I asked.
He hung his head. “I don’t know. Zey ’ave schemes within schemes. Zey use that fool, Malharrao.”
I believed we were seeing only a portion of their grand plan. Whatever they were plotting, the assassination of the Maharajah of Baroda might be only be a small part, a means to their greater—and more evil—end.
“Your position is very grave. The Maharajah’s advisers are clamoring for your blood,” I said. “I will have to think about my—”
I got no further for at that moment there was a knock on the door and Waldo burst in, flushed and excited.
“Where have you been, Kit?” he burbled. “I’ve been looking for you everywhere.”
“Here, of course,” I answered.
“Oh give up the smart talk. This is too exciting!” Perspiration was dripping off Waldo’s face and his shirt was damp. “The Maharajah has asked to see us. We’re going to the treasure vaults.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know … Come on!”
With a last glance at Champlon who had sunk back on his pillows, his face crumpling, I raced after Waldo.
“Please,” Champlon mouthed at me. “Please keep my secret.”
The Maharajah paused at the top of the stairs leading down to the lower levels of the palace and the treasure vaults. “You have heard the terrific news?” he asked.
“No, Your Highness.”
“Mercy doesn’t grow on trees.”
“No.”
His round face broke into a delightful smile. “But in Baroda it does grow on trees! We have decided to pardon your friend Champlon. I tell my advisers the better part of wisdom is mercy. Let mercy temper the fruits of justice.”
“Oh, thank you, Your Highness,” I said, rejoicing with all my heart.
He waved his hand airily. “It is done already. Besides I am too pleased with my friends, Waldo. This is all you want, Waldo? Just look old journal?”
Waldo nodded.
“Young man,” the Dewan intervened. “The Maharajah feels you are too humble. This is too little to thank you for saving his life. He will give you rubies, diamonds, gold, tigers … name your price.”
“You have already done enough, Your Majesty,” my aunt interrupted. She didn’t approve of anyone but herself being showered with riches. “Pardoning Monsieur Champlon was merciful indeed.”
“It is right that I personally must thank you, Valdo the American,” the Maharajah insisted.
Waldo hesitated a moment. He was very, very tempted, I could tell, by the diamonds and tigers. I kicked him from behind on the shins. “Ouch,” he muttered and then after a moment’s sullen silence he replied:
“It’s very kind of Your Majesty to offer me gifts but I must refuse them.” He gave me a quick sideways glare. “It is very important to my friends to see this journal.”
The Maharajah nodded and
we all followed him single file down through winding corridors till we came to an iron door engraved with swirling patterns. Three sentinels, richly garbed in scarlet and gold uniforms, curved scimitars in their belts, were lounging outside the door. When they saw us they sprang to attention and we were let into the treasure vaults.
It was a vast, soaring chamber. Cobwebs wreathed fluted pillars, trailed from wooden beams carved with wondrous birds and beasts. I gazed around in wonder, though I could see but dimly. The Dewan uttered a word in Gujarati and more sentinels sprang into action, throwing open the shutters with much clanging. As the room was suddenly flung into bright relief, we all gasped with awe.
Treasure. More treasure than we had ever thought to see! An Aladdin’s cave, crammed with chests of gold, silver, wood and ivory. Glistening pearls spilled from one. A golden cup, coiled with ruby snakes, sat carelessly on top of another. The Maharajah opened a bronze box brimming with gems. What a world of wealth they conjured: sapphires and emeralds hinting at the watery depths of the ocean, rubies rich as the reddest wine. Casually he reached inside and pulled out a glittering rope of gems, sapphires coiling around one huge diamond.
“The Star of the South,” the Maharajah said, pointing to the sparkling thing.
The diamond was multi-faceted, gleaming with a strange secret light. To my dazzled eyes, it looked as if the Maharajah had caught a little piece of the moon—and held it trapped and blinking in his hand. This sounds foolish I know, but I had never seen something so shiny. We stared at the diamond, mesmerized. Rachel, Waldo, Isaac, Mr. Prinsep, Miss Minchin, my aunt and father. A circle of worshippers.
“Best necklace in the world,” the Maharajah said, casually replacing it in the box.
I glanced at Waldo. His face was ashen. Now that he had seen the Maharajah’s treasures he was clearly regretting his decision not to be showered with gifts.
“Um,” he began, clearing his throat.
“Don’t even think of begging for gold,” I hissed at him. “Aunt Hilda would never forgive you.”
“What you think of this? My royal robes.” The Maharajah had wandered over to the corner of the room where a court dress was laid out on a silver chair. There was a coat of deep blue silk with a high stiff collar and covered with delicate embroidery of pearls and gold thread. A matching set of pantaloons. A waistcoat even more richly embroidered with emeralds and rubies, and perched above, a turban speckled with more diamond fire. The costume was far too big for the Maharajah, he would be swamped by it. These rich robes must have been ordered by his wicked predecessor.
“Why don’t you wear these things, Your Highness?” I asked. The Maharajah was wearing cream linen pantaloons and a matching shirt. Though gleaming with starch the garments were very simple.
For a reply he burst into giggles. “Most uncomfortable, Miss Salter, I could hardly move my neck.” Then his face sobered. “I will be different kind of Maharajah … a modern king. I will build schools and hospitals for my people.”
Mr. Prinsep was glowing with pride. “You’ll show ’em, Your Highness.”
“Most surely.”
“You’ll be a lot better than that fellow.” Mr. Prinsep gestured to an oil painting shoved in a shadowy corner of the vaults. I went up to it and took a good look. It was of a bearded, slightly pop-eyed man. Unmistakably our old friend, Malharrao, the wicked former Maharajah. He seemed to have a positive mania for posing atop dead animals, for here he was lying on a lion skin, the Star of the South gleaming round his neck.
“Have you any news of him?” I asked, cautiously. My aunt and friends knew of course that he was behind the plot to kidnap Champlon and assassinate his successor. But what had they told the palace? I didn’t want to get the Frenchman into more trouble.
“We think he is here, in Baroda,” the Dewan said, a grim look on his face.
“Why?”
“You can take that innocent look off your face, Miss Salter,” he replied. “We are not fools. Mr. Prinsep told us you recognized Malharrao, leaving the boat. Somehow Malharrao is involved with your Frenchman and this whole to-do about hypnotism.
“It is very simple really. No one wants Sayaji dead, like that rotten man.”
We were all silent—glancing at one another guiltily. The tension was palpable, in that vast gloomy hall. I felt as if I was in a room full of smoke and mirrors. What did the palace know? What did they know we knew? Who knew? It was an impossible situation, heavy with guilt and secrets. Then the Maharajah clapped his hands.
“You all worry too much!” he trilled. “I have idea. Waldo, you must try on royal robes.”
“No, sir … I mean Your Majesty.”
“Yes, yes!”
“I couldn’t.”
“You must. It will be a great joke.”
With a foolish grin on his face, Waldo agreed to the Maharajah’s demands. He shrugged on the heavy robes with a proud air. I hate to admit it, but he did look rather handsome. The dark silk set off his blue eyes and blond hair. He lifted his head in the pose of a king.
“My, you look handsome,” Miss Minchin gushed. Her admirer, Mr. Prinsep, cast a jealous look at Waldo.
Then the beaming Maharajah placed the turban on Waldo’s head and the royal likeness was complete.
“His Supreme Highness Waldo the American,” said the Maharajah. “Bow down.” Everyone, down to the last sentinel played along with his game. I groveled along with the rest, though I felt slightly sick when I caught Waldo’s smirk.
He was loving this.
“I know!” the Maharajah exclaimed. “I vill give this turban to you, Waldo. Wenever you put it on you vill be King and everyone will have to listen to you.”
That was the worst idea I had ever heard! The Dewan took the Maharajah aside and whispered to him agitatedly, but I could see the boy was adamant. The turban must be worth a fortune, speckled as it was with diamonds.
“It is too much,” my aunt said, echoing my thoughts. Though as it was her, she was probably wishing she had been presented with gems. “The diamonds are—”
“Only small … nothing.” The Maharajah waved an airy hand. “Waldo, when you put on this turban, you remember that Maharajah of Baroda is always your great friend,” he said and that was the end of the matter.
I could see my father, who has a one-track mind, was thinking of Father Monserrate’s journal. Coughing now, he brought it up. “The manuscripts, Your Highness.”
“Ah yes.” The Maharajah wandered past some glossy oil paintings—one of a golden angel bathed in a halo of light looked Italian—till he came to a dusty wooden box. This was a broken-down old thing, fragments of earth still adhering to it. It was out of place amid the riches of the royal vaults. He picked it up and handed it to my father, who was trembling with excitement.
I must confess I was trembling too.
Inside there was a leather-bound journal filled with yellowing paper. Nothing precious. Though, to my father, this was the most amazing thing in the room. He was a dusty old scholar again, the lure of diamonds forgotten.
The paper gave off a dry crackle as he extracted them from the box. We crowded round him as he opened the book up and started to leaf through the pages, glancing at the spidery black writing.
I had glimpsed something that my father had missed in the depths of the chest. A rusty-red roll of paper. I reached in and felt the dry texture of parchment. As soon as my skin touched the thing a jolt, a marvelous shock, traveled up through my fingers, sparking along my nerves till it reached my heart. I felt alive, alert. I knew this was vital. In that tiny twist of a second I felt that it would change my life. Carefully I took out the paper, which was folded up into quarters. On the face of it, it was pretty unremarkable, something old, long-forgotten. When I unrolled the thing, it began to glow, moon-like. It was a map. The parchment faded with the ages, but the ink still vibrant oranges, turquoise and scarlet.
I had only to brush this object with the lightest of touches, for it to claim me. This map and I
were connected. It had chosen me. I was destined to be here, to hold this precious, secret thing in my hands. No one was taking the slightest notice of me, they were all crushed around my father. My heart was thumping with excitement, as I began to read:
SHAMBALA
A guide to the Moste Secrete and Beauteous Idyll
Now my aunt had noticed my find and looked curiously over my shoulder. “Theo,” she gasped. “It’s here. Shambala. Paradise on earth.”
She had attracted the others who now all crowded around me. Shaking them off, I walked over to the window so I would have more light. I smoothed the map out and carefully held it up, stretched between my two hands. There was silence in the room, as we breathed in the aroma of this old legend. I could just imagine the missionary venturing across the seas many centuries ago to the court of the great Mughal king, Emperor Akbar. There he had heard tales of marvelous doings. Whispers of mysterious rites and secrets.
This map was special. But it did not belong to my father, or aunt or the Maharajah. I knew that only I, Kit Salter, could feel the call of time and magic swirling beneath the surface of the rough parchment, the presence of the fakir who had inscribed these secrets. It was beautifully designed, covered with ultramarine lakes and mountains with icy white-inked tips. I looked at them and was drawn into the map. I felt a longing, deep inside me, a sort of wrenching in my gut and snarling in my heart.—
It was as if the map was pulling me. Somewhere, a voice whispered, there is something better. I would be … happier … oh, I didn’t know. Along with the pull of a dream, I also felt sharply dissatisfied. I had to shake off my clinging friends and family and make a break for myself. I had to find out who I was, and what real freedom meant.
Was there really a promised land?
Abominable Cave—beware all ye who …
I was reading when my hands were joggled. I felt a sudden, sharp pain in my neck. I shrieked as a pair of claws grasped the map. There was something on my shoulder, yabbering in my ear, nails digging my flesh. I turned my head and I was inches away from a furry white face. It had leering ochre eyes, its raven-black pupils dilated. There was a tiny point of light in the center of each eye.
The Maharajah's Monkey Page 9
