The Palace Tiger

by Barbara Cleverly

  ‘Oh, yes. Look at Clause 1. Good opening, I think you’ll agree. “There shall be perpetual friendship and alliance between the Honourable East India Company and the Raja of Ranipur. The friends and enemies of one party shall be friends and enemies of both. The British Government engages to protect the principality and territory of Ranipur in perpetuity.” Well, there you have it. The government of the day took over the rights and the responsibilities of John Company on his dissolution. We, that is HM Gov., gave its word. And you don’t welch on a Rajput! We’ve protected them and they’ve done much for us over the years. Did Edgar tell you how the prince of Ranipur came by his nineteen gun salute and his title of Maharaja?’

  Joe shook his head.

  ‘It was well earned and springs from their respect for the female sex. In the darkest days of the Sepoy Revolt when the British were being slaughtered by elements of the Indian army a small contingent of women and children were shipped off in boats down the river by their menfolk who were making a last rearguard stand against the native forces. A desperate measure and the pursuing rebels soon caught up with them, riding along the bank and howling with glee when they saw that the boats were awash and beginning to sink. What they hadn’t realized was that they’d strayed into the territory of the prince of Ranipur. He remembered the treaty his great grandfather had signed and set about upholding his part of the bargain. He sent a rescue party out to pull the women and children to safety on the southern bank and loosed his crack troops against the rebels on the northern bank. Routed them and held the British civilians in safety until they were picked up many weeks later by a recovered British force. A very grateful British force. He was given his increased gun salute and the plain Raja became Maharaja – great ruler. And they acquired a good story to tell, one of bravery, chivalry and Rajput honour. I think that’s why we get on so well with the Rajputs – we admire the same qualities.’

  Joe had fought back the temptation to add, ‘And Machiavellian deviousness? How about that quality, George?’ He thought he knew the answer.

  His eyes rested again on what he suspected was the Machiavelli of Ranipur. Zalim was eagerly inviting the company to step outside and enjoy the night air, now cooling, he promised, as it wafted upwards from the lake behind the palace. An entertainment had been laid on for them in the courtyard.

  They followed him, brandy glasses in hand, along a short corridor and down a flight of steps, emerging into the dark blue velvet of an Indian night. Music and chatter, laughter and short bursts of song greeted them and, unexpectedly, a crowd of courtiers, twinkling in jewels and satins, standing around a marble-paved sunken courtyard some thirty yards across and surrounded by a colonnaded piazza. Somewhere a fountain splashed and gushed, throwing up a fine cooling spray. The air was heavy with the scent from the orangeries which lined the courtyard and from the more distant blossom trees surrounding the lake. With a gesture, the Dewan invited the dinner guests to join him, seated cross-legged on the carpets which had been spread over the marble slabs. He indicated that Joe should sit at his left hand in the centre of the group and, at his nod, the music began in earnest as a small group of musicians gathered at the far end of the colonnade began to play.

  Joe detected the sound of the tabor and sarangi, a flute and a guitar whose exponent was so skilled he could have appeared with the Philharmonic. The sweet notes of the tappa filled the air, a measure of plaintive simplicity which put Joe in mind of his own native Scottish tunes. After the briefest of pauses, the music struck up again but louder, faster and more compelling.

  Into the arena swirled a group of female dancers, the bells on their ankles sounding an insistent rhythm as they stamped their way forward and took up their places on the black and white squares of the courtyard. Against this sombre backdrop the bright reds, blues, purples and yellows of their ankle-length petticoats of heavy silk stood out, lit by countless flares and strings of lights hanging from the columns. Their hair, jet-black, was smoothed down in gleaming curtains on either side of their faces, the rims of their dark eyes lined with kohl.

  Nautch girls, that was what he had heard them called, though Joe had not yet seen nautch dancing. Much enjoyed by the bachelors in the employ of the East India Company, these performances were discouraged by their, for the most part, married and prudish successors from Victorian England. And more fool them! Joe thought as he settled to enjoy the dance. Expressive eyes and flashing smiles enchanted him and, as they began to dance to an ever faster rhythm, he was lost in admiration for their lithe vitality. Of the dozen dancers one or two appeared to be the stars and they came forward to perform individually before the Dewan. One in particular attracted Joe’s admiration. A little taller than the others, she was outstandingly acrobatic in her dancing and drew applause from the crowd. With the composure of Ellen Terry taking a third curtain call, she began to repeat her routine and Joe was intrigued to notice that whenever she came out of a turn, it was his eye she caught. He thought he must have been mistaken but no, when she rejoined the rest of the company, she continued to watch him. The Dewan himself seemed to be conscious of this. He turned to Joe with a raised eyebrow and, leaning towards him, in an amused tone whispered, ‘Her name’s Padmini!’

  He continued to chuckle good-naturedly to himself until the dancers, with a final athletic flourish, disappeared.

  Glasses of pomegranate juice and iced tea were suddenly at their elbows while the musicians wound down, playing a soft native tune. Suddenly, the Dewan rose to his feet and the rest of the audience rose also, a general stirring of excitement beginning to run through the assembled courtiers.

  ‘At this point in the evening’s entertainment my ancestors would have regaled you with a gladiatorial combat,’ said the Dewan conversationally to Joe. ‘But no longer, though I have in mind a contest of sorts. We Rajputs enjoy a sporting exhibition as much as the British, you know. We are hoping our guests will participate.’

  Joe was beginning to feel a ripple of anxiety run through him. He hadn’t quite liked the emphasis on the word ‘British’. Surely they weren’t expecting him to put on a show? Good Lord! – didn’t they go in for bare-knuckle boxing and panther wrestling? There were lengths he was not prepared to go to even for the honour of the Empire. He waited in trepidation for the Dewan’s next announcement.

  ‘We are hoping to engage the might of Scotland Yard in a friendly – I hope friendly – round of one of our favourite Rajput games. Chaturanga, we call it.’

  Joe searched his memory for a reference to this sport but drew a blank.

  ‘You play chess?’

  ‘Chess?’ Joe could only repeat in some astonishment. ‘A game which originated in India, I believe. Yes, I do . . . but – here? Now?’

  ‘Yes, indeed, here. Look! Do you see the squares? The courtyard is laid out for an open air game.’

  Joe looked again at the pattern of black and white marble slabs and realized that they were more than merely decorative. He was looking at a huge gaming board.

  ‘This is an adaptation of our national game, chaupar or pucheesee,’ the Dewan was going on. ‘Normally it is played on a four-armed grid and rather similar to your own Ludo. Pieces move around the board according to numbers thrown using conch shells.’ Joe nodded dubiously. He had vaguely heard of this game. ‘But my brother is very fond of chess as it is played in Europe – it leaves less to chance and shows off the players’ skills – so he had the court adapted for playing this game. He understands that you are a skilled player, Commander . . .’ A courteous nod and a smile in his direction did nothing to ease Joe’s forebodings.

  The crowd pressed forward, murmuring and smiling, the dark-suited dinner party guests distinguishable amongst but greatly outnumbered by turbaned Rajput nobles in court dress, diamonds winking and pearls gleaming against silk coats. The atmosphere was one of restrained joviality but with an undercurrent which to Joe was palpable, an undercurrent of excitement. They shuffled around the courtyard, taking up positions giving a good view of
the chessboard. He tried to recall whether their interest went as far as betting on the outcome and wondered very much who his opponent would be. With sinking heart he acknowledged that this was undoubtedly a set-up and that one of these clever, competitive Rajputs had already been chosen to make a fool of the officer from Scotland Yard.

  He was surprised and relieved to hear the Dewan announce that his opponent was to be Edgar Troop.

  Smiling and feigning humble astonishment, Edgar took up a position on the opposite side of the square. He nodded courteously to Joe and clicked his heels. Joe did the same, his mind racing. He had no idea that Edgar could even play chess, but then, there were many facets of Edgar’s character which, thankfully, had so far remained a mystery.

  Reminding himself that this was just a bit of after-dinner entertainment and that with deliberate sleight of hand they had been set against each other to amuse the more skilled Indian audience, Joe determined to give a good performance. Chess, for him, was the equivalent of battle planning and he began at once to check the lie of the land. He had no idea of the local rules and assumed that his opponent did. But the Dewan was speaking again.

  ‘Commander Sandilands has not played our national game before. I think, under the British rule of fair play, it would be in order to appoint an adviser, one to each side.’

  A murmur of agreement went up.

  ‘Claude? May I ask you to second Sandilands? I myself will undertake to assist Captain Troop. Not that Edgar needs or would pay attention to advice, I think.’

  Joe noticed that Colin O’Connor was frowning and looking disconcerted. He caught Joe’s eye and made a grimace Joe could not fathom. ‘Bad luck, old man, but do your best,’ was the nearest he could get to an interpretation.

  The atmosphere was becoming increasingly tense, murmur and chatter shot through with sudden bursts of laughter, long speculative looks directed at the two players.

  ‘Are they betting on the result?’ Joe asked Vyvyan who had taken up a position at his right hand.

  ‘Betting? No, not at all. But the outcome will entertain them . . . whichever way it goes. They’re as fond of a bit of gossip and speculation as your average officers’ mess,’ he replied cryptically.

  ‘What the hell?’

  ‘Just calm down and go along with it, Sandilands. It’s only a game. It’ll give a lot of pleasure to a lot of people if you foul up and that’s the worst that can happen. At least in this combat nobody dies. They like a good show so I’d slightly overdo everything if I were you. Play to the gallery. Now listen. These are the rules. It’s very simple for a competent chess player which I understand you are . . .’

  He explained the rules, which indeed appeared quite straightforward. So simple was the whole game that Joe could not for a moment understand why the crowd was still throbbing with an undercurrent of excitement.

  ‘This is all very well,’ he said impatiently, ‘and I don’t want to appear demanding, but when I play chess I normally play it with chessmen . . . you know . . . pawns, rooks, knights, perhaps even a king and queen . . . I see none here.’

  Vyvyan gave a knowing smile. ‘Ah. Yes. The chessmen,’ he said mysteriously. ‘If I’m not mistaken – here they come!’

  He turned to enjoy Joe’s expression of stunned amazement as the crowd parted and into the arena with a tinkle of bells, a drumming of bare feet and a whirl of bright skirts came two files of beautiful girls. With giggles and coquettish sideways glances from their kohl-rimmed eyes they took up their places on the board. Joe’s pawns and pieces were dressed in red and blue, Edgar’s in green and yellow. Joe’s astonishment turned to amusement and he began to relax.

  The Dewan addressed the company again in his booming master of ceremonies voice. ‘When this game was invented by the Emperor Akbar, the chess pieces were slave girls and the winner of the round was permitted to take the whole lot away with him as his own. But we live in more civilized times. The winner of this game will not, of course, make off with the beauties you see before you. But he will have his prize.’ He paused theatrically, looking first at Joe then at Edgar. ‘He will have his choice of one of the girls for one night.’

  Under cover of the chatter and laughter which broke out, Joe spluttered his disgust to Claude. With a fixed smile Claude replied, ‘When in Rome, Joe! Come on, it’s not the end of the world! It’s an honour you’ve been accorded. Try to look as though you appreciate it. For God’s sake, you can always plead a headache at the last moment!’ And then he added ominously, ‘If it should come to that. Look at the opposition, will you!’

  They both looked towards Edgar, heavy, unattractive, the worse for alcohol but smugly confident and already running a lecherous eye over the girls.

  ‘La chevalerie oblige, Sandilands! Don’t you agree?’

  ‘See what you mean, sir. There are fates worse than losing at chess! And winning a night with Edgar must rank high on the list!’

  Chapter Nine

  Three notes on a silver trumpet called everyone to attention. The audience stopped moving about and looked expectantly from Joe to Edgar. The girls fell silent and held themselves in their positions as still as any chessmen, backs to their master, faces to the enemy, battle-ready.

  Joe leaned to Vyvyan and said, ‘I don’t imagine, do I, that they are graded for height?’

  ‘Quite right,’ said Vyvyan. ‘Your pawns are the smallest and all the same size. All got up in red skirts. The blue girls, your main pieces, are in height order. You’ve got two small rooks on the outside, do you see? Larger knights next door, then bishops.’

  ‘Why do the bishops have elephants embroidered on their bodices?’ Joe asked.

  ‘Indian game, remember. Their armies were made up of four parts: foot soldiers – those are your pawns; chariots – that’s your rooks, the ones with the gold wheels on their backs; then cavalry – that’s your knights with the horse’s head embroidery; lastly, the elephants which are our bishops. In the centre, wearing crowns, you’ve got the two tallest ones, the king and queen.’

  At that moment the blue queen, who was wearing a silver crown, turned her head to look at him and with a jolt Joe recognized Padmini.

  The trumpet sounded again, a single note. Joe caught the eye of one of his red pawns. Did he have a feeling that she was expecting to be called on? He rather thought she did and he held up two fingers. The pawn duly advanced two squares and confronted Edgar’s front rank. Edgar sent forward one of his yellow-skirted pawns and the battle was engaged.

  Joe surmised that no one would be entertained if the game dragged on and he decided to play with panache. He remembered a move he and a fellow officer had devised in the trenches in a despairing attempt to distract from the tedium and the terror of being pinned down by German artillery, unable to move forward or retreat. They’d called it ‘Haig’s Mate’ and if all went according to plan he should be able to close down the game in fifteen moves.

  But Edgar was giving no quarter and was from the outset making clear his intention to win. He spent hardly any time considering his game, which seemed to be a style the audience and indeed the chess pieces appreciated. Joe noticed that on occasions when a player spent a little longer in thought, the piece herself, when finally called to action, was a fraction of a second ahead of the call, a slim foot edging forward in anticipation of the move.

  Edgar soon extricated himself from Joe’s planned sequence and the advantage moved to and fro between the two well-matched players. One by one, pieces lost or sacrificed stamped off in a tinkle of bells to the edge of the board until only a handful were left on each side.

  Joe hesitated before making the next move. He gratefully accepted a glass of pomegranate juice from a footman, using that as a respite from the remorseless speed of play. He noticed that Edgar was taking another whisky-soda from the tray. Edgar had wriggled out of all the traps Joe had set and gone on the attack with a flourish. Over the rim of his glass Joe suddenly noticed that the left foot of his blue queen was tapping out a patter
n. Unlike the other pieces she was not wearing ankle bells and her movements were probably unnoticed by the crowd. He looked more carefully. Five taps. In the top left-hand corner of her square. Could she be giving him a signal? What would happen if he . . .? He ran his eye along the diagonals. Blast it! How could he not have noticed! The exhausting day, the champagne, the lateness of the hour – he could think of reasons enough, but Joe cursed himself for his lapse in attention.

  He signalled to his queen that she should move five squares diagonally to the left. Unleashed at last, she swooped forward with the relish of an avenging Fury, dark skirts rustling, and rounded on Edgar’s king.

  ‘Check,’ announced Claude briskly.

  This was Joe’s breakthrough and four decisive moves later Claude shouted, ‘Shah mat! The king is dead! Checkmate!’

  Edgar stared at Joe across the courtyard, stiff with defiance and anger, but he bowed courteously. Joe returned the bow. To his alarm, the girls had fluttered back on to their squares and both armies now stood facing him, some looking modestly and evasively at their feet, others eyeing him with flirtatious speculation.

  ‘Time to bite the bullet, Sandilands. Don’t fuss!’ whispered Claude. ‘Just smile and pick a number.’

  Joe caught the straight gaze of Padmini and without hesitation said, ‘If the blue queen would care to step forward . . .?’

  Laughter and even a little discreet applause rippled round the square as she moved through the files to stand in front of him, still smiling.

  The Dewan slapped him on the shoulder. ‘A good choice. And a fitting reward for a game well played. Edgar is not an easy opponent. You have had a long and exhausting day, Commander, and are probably looking forward to your bed. Padmini will escort you to your quarters. She too is a skilled performer. At chess. Perhaps you will keep each other awake practising your moves . . .’ He shook with laughter, involving everyone in his mischievous good humour. ‘Take care not to overtire yourself . . . tomorrow promises to be a busy day.’