“Is that all you can say?”
“Father is no tyrant. When he finds out how I feel …” Prinsep’s words trailed off.
“I’m not much of a match,” Miss Minchin said. She slumped against the wall, forlorn. “Just a penniless governess.”
I cleared my throat and they jumped apart. Blushing, I hurried past, following the grinning pani-wallah. He stopped before a huge, brass decorated door. Inside I found my aunt, Father, friends, the Maharajah and the Dewan already assembled. Prinsep and Miss Minchin crept in after me. Champlon had been roused from his sick bed to join the conference. It was an impressive gathering, which could not have been held in a grander setting. Another vast room, filled from floor to ceiling with leather-bound books. Clearly the library. I settled down on a wooden bench.
“The heroine of the hour!” the Dewan rose to welcome me. “Let us forget the bad business this afternoon and enjoy for a moment your triumph over the Spraggs.”
“Jolly good show,” the Maharajah beamed.
Only Waldo, who hates to see me “get above” myself, was frowning at the praise.
You have to enjoy yourself when you have the chance! I forgot the death-threat letter and the monkey and gave myself over to the sheer pleasure of irritating Waldo.
Everyone smiled, relishing the memory of the Spraggs’s discomfort. The moment was gone too soon, as a grim expression settled on the Dewan’s face.
“Plotting,” he said, “is the lifeblood of the palace.”
The Maharajah grinned sheepishly and a murmur went around the room.
“Normal people work and gossip, sleep and eat. We plot!”
The Dewan, though scarcely bigger than a normal boy, made an impressive figure. His bald head shone above his maroon silk kurta, as he began to pace back and forth, his eyes constantly flitting toward the young Maharajah:
“Many people want to murder our king. They disagree with the way he was chosen for his great task. They think they have purer royal blood or want to see their own sons on the throne. The palace is sick with plots and factions. I am the only one here who is one hundred percent for the Maharajah, because, you see, I have no sons. I am unmarried and my only tie is to him.
“But you must understand something. This plot was something new.”
The Maharajah sat on the bench listening; his childish face and liquid brown eyes impassive. How calm he was. He must have lived among this atmosphere of intrigue, with the constant fear of death, ever since he came to the palace.
“Imagine the planning that went into it. Someone—who we now know was Malharrao—traveled all the way to England so they could kidnap Monsieur Champlon and mesmerize him into killing our young friend.”
I glanced furtively at Champlon, searching for signs of guilt at the mention of hypnotism. But he looked remarkably smug. What an actor that man was.
“Why?” Waldo interrupted. “Why go to all the trouble of kidnapping Champlon? There are others who could have done the job.”
Champlon, swaddled like a baby despite the heat, gave a smug smile: “I sink eet is obvious,” he said.
“Not to me,” Waldo put in.
“Our French guest is famous,” the Dewan answered. “He is one of the world’s best marksmen.”
“Ze best,” Champlon said firmly.
“One thing I pride myself on is our soldiers,” the Dewan continued. “Our young Maharajah is guarded day and night. It is well-nigh impossible to get to him. The plotters clearly thought they needed the best gun in the world to assassinate our king—so.”
We were all silent as we gave thanks for the fortune that had protected the Maharajah. Apart from anything else, I would not like to have seen Champlon’s skull crushed under an elephant’s massive leg.
“Our spies are everywhere,” the Dewan continued. “Little happens in Baroda that we don’t know about. Champlon has given us good information about these villains—we were on the lookout.
“Last night one of our best spies brought us an interesting tale. A party of strangers had rented a bungalow about ten minutes’ ride from here. They pretended to be Indians but our spy questioned the cook they had hired. He confirmed they were foreigners. A monkey with a white face went with them. Everywhere. Aha, I said to myself. Immediately I sent a party of soldiers to arrest these strangers. But when my men arrived at the bungalow they had gone. Vanished!”
Aunt Hilda let out a sudden groan.
“The place was cleaned out. Not a thing remained except for this broken thing,” he held out a bulb-shaped piece of blue and white pottery with a spout at the top. It was an ordinary Dr. Nelson’s inhaler, which you can buy at any English pharmacist to help with asthma. Both Baker Brothers wheezed, so it could have belonged to either of them.
“We hadn’t a moment to lose. I set our guards to close the borders of Baroda.” He paused. “I’m sorry to tell you we were too late.” After another pause he continued, “We have information that this party left Baroda by an outlying hill path late last night. They were traveling in two carriages.”
“This is a disaster!” Aunt Hilda exclaimed.
“Quite so.” The Dewan bowed his head. “There is one small useful fact. I have information from their cook, who overheard their preparation. We believe they are making for the roof of the world, Tibet in the Himalayas.”
I listened to the Dewan’s words dully, without any surprise. I already knew the Bakers were going to the Himalayas. Was certain in my bones that the Bakers were seeking Shambala.
“We have to follow them!” Waldo declared.
“Hold on!” My father interjected quietly. “We don’t know what route they took, or what part of the Himalayas they are seeking.”
“These are deep waters,” the Dewan murmured. “The plot against our Maharajah is tangled in mysteries. These two foreigners and their monkey have some other goal in mind.”
“I think you’re right,” I cut in, addressing the Dewan. “Their plan here has failed. These men are very practical. They’ve moved on to the next stage of their plot.”
“You’re very sure of yourself.” The Dewan’s eyes twinkled. “How old are you, young lady?”
“That’s hardly relevant.” I shrugged.
“Kit. Apologize at once!” My aunt snapped.
“I’m sorry, sir.”
The Dewan shrugged; he seemed highly amused.
“With all due respect, sir,” I went on. “I think they were really after the map to Shambala. The legend of this Himalayan paradise has fascinated travelers for centuries. The Bakers believe this map will lead them there—and to something glorious …
“The scary thing is—they have half of this map now.”
“You are sharp, Miss Salter,” he replied. “Shambala is believed to be in Tibet. You may be right.”
My aunt was watching us with an odd, uneasy expression. “We will never catch them,” she said. “We’ve no chance.”
She was right. We were foreigners in India. We didn’t have the local knowledge to beat them to the mountains, never mind to trace my map’s jagged course among the towering peaks of the Himalayas. The strangers were on the quest for Shambala—for some treasure I’m sure my aunt and father were aware of. They had a head start, half the map. They would get there before us. The only hope lay with my half of the map.
I couldn’t tell the others. They would call me conceited, deluded and Lord knows what else. But I was the only one. The map had chosen me to lead them to Shambala. I just knew it.
My aunt rose, deep in thought. Click-clack-click went her shoes as she stomped around the wooden floor. She turned around and spoke to my father, in what she thought was a whisper. I overheard her hiss: “They must know about it,” before he quelled her. So, I was right. They had a secret. There was some treasure in the Himalayas which they were unwilling to tell the rest of us about. I imagined something fabulous, priceless, like the great Koh-i-noor diamond, whose brilliance was said to light up the world. Father was very bad at keeping things from me. I wo
uld soon find out what all the mystery was about.
I couldn’t hold my tongue. “We must try and catch these people,” I declared. “After all, they are kidnappers, would-be assassins, murderers.” Turning to the boy king I pleaded, “Will you help us?”
The Maharajah made a gesture with his hands: “Anything! For Waldo the American who saved my life—and Kit who saved my—how you say—” he tapped his head.
“Wits?” I offered.
“Yes, wits. Awful Spraggs made my head boil. Take all you need. Horses. Foods. Tents. Best guides.”
My father and aunt still looked gloomy and I understood from their faces the enormity of the challenge facing us. How would we ever find our enemies in the wildest mountains in the world?
“Do not despair,” the Dewan said softly. “The game is not over and we have the trump card.”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“The Dalai Lama does not allow foreigners into Tibet.”
“Who is the Dalai Lama?” I asked, reddening a little, for I was ashamed of my ignorance.
“He is a monk king. He rules Tibet and allows no one inside his high mountain kingdom. Not the Chinese, not the Russians. Certainly not you Britishers, for he fears you wish to steal his country away from him.” He stopped a moment and grinned at us: “After all, you are known for stealing other people’s countries.”
My aunt painfully forced down a biting retort.
“No one can get inside Tibet, it is too dangerous,” the Dewan went on. “There is no pleasant way to put this. If the guards find you they will kill you—slowly and painfully. They will roast you alive, or pull the nails out of your fingers, one by one. You will need the right guide to stand any chance. You understand me—there are only a few men in the world who can take you to this place.
“But these are only practical things. Really, the journey to Tibet and its most sacred place, Shambala, is a voyage to your soul. Only when you journey inside yourself will these holy mountains share their blessings with you.”
I stared at him. Many Indians, I noticed, could not speak plainly. They would use flowery phrases or talk in riddles, when a straightforward explanation would do. Their words created more fog than light! “Journey inside yourself” indeed! I am a girl, not the Great Indian Railway.
“Open your mind to India,” he said, smiling.
“If I open my mind any wider my brains will drop out,” I said. The Maharajah tittered and my aunt frowned at my impertinence. But even as I spoke, my map, folded near my heart, whispered its own rebuke.
Don’t mock what you don’t yet understand, it murmured. Listen and you will find a way. Go. Go. Hurry, now—because time is fleeting.
Chapter Fifteen
“Is this really necessary, Aunt Hilda?” I wondered, looking at the mounds of luggage heaped on the station platform. There were mosquito nets and khaki drill tents, walking boots and mountaineering ropes, tinned meat and vegetables, dry biscuits and dates. Rifles were stacked besides glittering ammunition belts. Of course, we had brought my aunt’s favorite explorer’s staple, that stomach-turning concoction of lard and potted meat called pemmican. My aunt—never one to face hardship without as many home comforts as she could manage—had really outdone herself this time. There were at least five pairs of socks for each and every one of us.
“Surely all this luggage will weigh us down,” I added.
“Pish-posh,” she replied briskly. “Better late in this life than early in the next.”
“Pardon?”
“It is an old Indian saying. It means go slowly and be prepared. This is no picnic we’re embarking on, my dear Kit. We are going to one of the most dangerous places on earth. I, for one, would like to have several pairs of woolly socks when my toes threaten to drop off with frostbite.”
She was right. I gulped down further protests.
The Maharajah had made good his promise and with incredible speed all the necessities had been assembled for our journey to the Himalayas. The royal carriages had been freshly washed, so you could actually see the Maharajah’s crest—a prowling tiger. As we spoke, the steam train hooted, calling us to our epic journey—across the deserts of Rajasthan then on to Simla, in the foothills of the Himalayan mountains.
The Himalayas: the first step into the unknown.
The Maharajah had come down from the palace to bid us farewell, as had the Dewan. Part of me was sad to be leaving Baroda, for we had been showered with kindness here. I had become especially fond of Sonali, the elephant, and went to see her in the stables every day. I loved her wrinkled skin and tender eyes. I had even grown used to her attacks of wind, which were unbelievably foul smelling! Most of me, though, was thrilled to be off. But my poor afflicted father, whose stomach had been playing up ceaselessly, was very pale and I feared that Rachel was equally wan. The Minchin, in a faded frock she had buttoned up wrongly, was the most subdued. Her eyes were red and puffy and tears had left visible tracks amid the thick powder on her cheeks.
“Where’s Prinsep?” Rachel whispered to me. “Miss Minchin is terribly upset to be leaving. I wish she could stay with him.”
That would be wonderful, I thought. Every day, even during our voyage and our stay at the palace we had to take time off for “tedious lessons.” Only lately—as love had bloomed—Miss Minchin had become rather lackadaisical in her teaching.
Without waiting for me to reply Rachel muttered something and disappeared down the platform. Where was Prinsep? Did he really care for our governess so little that he couldn’t even be bothered to see us off? I looked up and down the platform, but though the station was bustling with vendors of chai and nuts and sweetmeats, there was no sign of the gangling form of the Maharajah’s tutor. Suddenly the whole affair became clear to me.
Mr. Prinsep was a cad!
He had been trifling with the Minchin’s affections.
How dare he! Steam building up inside my head, I stamped down the platform looking for the Maharajah. It took me a few moments to find him, chatting amid the piled luggage, to my father and the Dewan.
“You must bid Mr. Prinsep goodbye. For I fear he has been unable to come to see us off,” I said crossly.
The Maharajah looked at me in surprise, but the Dewan was wiser. He smiled at me, as if highly amused. “Your kind heart does you credit. Though you do not always show it wisely,” he murmured.
“I should think those who do not bother to show loyalty to their friends are the most unwise,” I replied.
“I’m afraid it was not in Mr. Prinsep’s gift to accompany us here. I have sent him off on an errand.”
“Oh.”
“I realize your little governess is er … a bit sad.” The Dewan turned to my father. “The Maharajah has a proposition which he wishes me to put to you before I ask her.”
“Pardon?” Father blinked. He is so clever but sometimes he fails to understand normal conversation.
“I wish to offer your Miss Minchin a position. If you agree of course.”
“A position?” Father asked. “She isn’t qualified for government—”
“She is very well qualified indeed for this post,” the Dewan interrupted. “The Maharani, the Dowager Queen, has for a long time felt the need for a companion. She would like a genteel English lady, cultured in music and conversation, to teach her the ways of Britishers. The Maharajah feels this would greatly aid the lady.”
Father blinked, uncertain, but my heart was singing. This was wonderful! No more Miss Minchin, no more Latin and grammar and tedious nursery tasks. She could stay in Baroda—and maybe one day, who knows, Prinsep’s starchy baronet father would consent to their wedding. This was a boon from nowhere. Then I had a vision of the Minchin peering out through barred palace windows, like the dark-eyed beauty I had seen earlier that day. That awful Zenana. She would be forced to spend her life behind bars, like some creature in a zoo. Her face covered in a veil. Never able to visit the shops or stroll in the park. It would be intolerably harsh for someone
who was used to her freedom. Why, she would not even be able to meet her admirer.
“She can’t!” I burst out.
“I know how attached you are to your governess,” the Dewan smiled.
“I’m not,” I spluttered.
“Kit!” father objected.
“Sorry. I mean it’s not that. Miss Minchin can’t live in the Zenana. She would hate it. Not being able to go out by herself. Not allowed to—”
“It is hard to understand some foreign customs,” the Dewan said. “I think you will be pleased, Kit, to learn that the Maharajah shares your poor opinion of the Zenana.”
“Yes,” the Maharajah burst in. “I am to end the Zenana. The Maharani will be first royal lady to give up purdah. Miss Minchin will not have Zenana.”
“Oh … in that case the position would be fine. I mean, we are very honored by the offer, Your Highness.”
“Shouldn’t your father be the one to judge?” the Dewan asked.
“Er … yes, Miss Minchin can certainly come with us,” Father said absently, his eyes wandering away. I could see he hadn’t been listening.
The Dewan gave me a smile of sympathy, as if he understood how difficult it was for me to manage my father. I could see he was still chuckling as he strolled down the platform to where Miss Minchin was drooping by the luggage. Isaac and Waldo were in an excited gaggle besides her and my aunt was energetically superintending the travel arrangements. But my governess looked remote from the noise, heat and bustle. She was in a daze, floating amid her smashed dreams. I watched while the Dewan drew her aside and spoke a few words to her. Surprise chased bewilderment across her face. Then, finally, Miss Minchin understood what the Dewan was proposing. Forgetting all her manners, she threw her arms around the old man’s neck. Radiant with delight.
Father was watching Miss Minchin, though I could tell he wasn’t really seeing her.
“She’s staying at the palace,” I told him.
“Er … is she? …” he muttered. “Rather a good thing all round.”
“Heaven sent,” I agreed.
“You could stay with Miss Minchin. Keep her company, along with your friends, of course.”
The Maharajah's Monkey Page 11
