The Palace Tiger

by Barbara Cleverly

  ‘Just go quietly, old man,’ advised Claude. ‘Autre pays, autres moeurs, don’t you know!’

  ‘If he reminds me I’m not in Knightsbridge now, I’ll hit him,’ Joe decided.

  With as little ceremony as he could manage, he set off to follow the twinkling silver crown of Padmini who moved a few paces ahead of him, swaying through the thinning crowds and into the increasingly deserted corridors. They crossed courtyards silent but for a slight breeze stirring the leaves and the gentle splashing of fountains. In the distance Joe thought he caught sounds of distressed wailing and the low throb of a drum but all else was quiet.

  At last, in the centre of a courtyard which he thought he recognized, Padmini paused and leaned over the basin of a fountain, dipping her arms in the cool water. Joe watched her playing with the drifting blossoms on the surface, deciding this was probably the time tactfully to tell her to return to her quarters rather than wait for the awkward moment when he would turn to face her on his doorstep. Did she speak any English? How on earth did you tell a girl in very rudimentary Hindi that, though you thought her the most arousing girl you had ever seen, her services were not required?

  He joined her at the fountain, preparing his speech. But no words would come. He stared, overcome by the nearness of the girl, tongue-tied with awe for her beauty. In her clinging blue silk she was almost invisible in the dark courtyard but the moonlight caught the jewels of her crown and lit the smiling great eyes she turned to him. Joe was overcome. He was beginning to lose his struggle with the deeply primitive emotion that had him in its grip. With his last reserves of determination he cleared his throat and began to croak out his rejection speech.

  ‘Padmini? Have I got that right? Now, look here, Padmini, I’m most frightfully sorry but . . .’

  The gazelle eyes flashed with comprehension then narrowed in disdain. Angrily, she leaned forward into the fountain and smacked the surface of the water hard, directing a spray of water straight at Joe’s face. With a peal of laughter to see his gasping astonishment, she turned and ran off leaving him dripping and cursing by the pool.

  Bloody girl! But at least she’d taken the hint pretty quickly. With relief and disappointment in equal measure, he set off again, certain that he could find his own way back to his room from this spot. After a few paces he stopped and listened. Pattering feet were going ahead of him in the same direction.

  He caught up with her at his door and rounded on her. Cool arms went up and locked with surprising strength behind his neck. He felt his shirt damp on his skin as she pressed herself to him and, standing on her toes, lifted her lips to kiss him. As their breath mingled he was enveloped by the sweet scent of the girl, attar of roses a seductive top-note to a surge of female warmth. His arms slipped of their own will around her waist. She was warm and scented and more than willing. She had attracted his attention, won the game for him and he would have said was claiming him as her prize. God! He needed this! And he’d earned it! ‘Another country, other customs,’ wasn’t that what Claude had said? Surrendering himself to the moment, Joe groaned and lowered his face to hers.

  ‘Aw, for God’s sake, Joe! They really stitched you up good, didn’t they!’

  The door of his room had opened and lamplight from inside revealed the figure of Madeleine standing there, wearing a long white robe, a glass in her hand.

  Joe couldn’t speak but anything he said would have been unheard as the two women faced each other. Padmini hissed something unintelligible in Hindi and Madeleine replied with matching scorn. ‘Same to you, sister! Now do us all a favour and beat it back to your lord and master!’ She grinned nastily. ‘And you can tell him you were outplayed. Victim of a discovered attack by the white queen!’

  Padmini whirled around and moved away, a darker retreating shadow amongst the shadows of the courtyard.

  ‘Hell’s bells, Madeleine!’ Joe gasped. ‘What are you doing here?’

  She pulled him inside, closed the door firmly and shot the bolt across.

  ‘Doing a bit of lonely drinking . . . Waiting for you to show up . . . Being your guardian angel . . .’

  ‘What do you mean? You’re not looking exactly angelic from where I’m standing!’

  She eyed him critically. ‘You should get a look at yourself, mister! Now, you were billed as a clever feller. War hero . . . survivor. Didn’t they tell me you worked for Military Intelligence? Those are smart guys. And you fell for it! Feet – well, perhaps some other part of your anatomy – first! She’s a plant! She’s the Dewan’s trained pillow talker. Didn’t you guess?’

  Joe could only stare in surprise and disgust.

  ‘This whole place,’ Madeleine waved her arms around, champagne slopping on to the carpet, ‘is an anthill. It’s all murmurings and gossip and plotting and all the information that’s going gets channelled right back to the Dewan. If you take a leak in the ghulskhana he’ll hear about it before you’ve flushed! He’s not sure why you’re here but he doesn’t trust the British. He knows you’re close to Sir George and that means you’re at the heart of the government so he wants to keep you under close surveillance. And you couldn’t have closer surveillance than the watch his pet trollop was about to keep on you! She’d have stuck closer than gum on your shoe!’

  Joe’s feeling of foolish inadequacy was giving way to anger. ‘I don’t talk in my sleep, they tell me . . . I can’t see that there’s a problem. And,’ he added defiantly, ‘had it occurred to you that this particular surveillance might not have been unwelcome?’

  Madeleine swept a knowing and cynical glance over Joe. ‘So I see. Well, you can always go take a cold shower. Another cold shower. That’s what you British do, isn’t it? Go ahead – I’ll look the other way.’

  Joe swallowed and tried to keep his tone polite as he spoke. ‘Would you like me to ring for Govind and have you escorted back to your own rooms?’ He went to the bell pull and took hold of it.

  To his dismay, the glass fell from her fingers and she put both hands over her face, silently sobbing.

  ‘Oh, Lord, Madeleine! Now what?’

  ‘Can’t you see it yet, you great lummox? I can’t go back there. I wouldn’t be safe. They hate me much more than they hated Prithvi. They blame me for everything! They probably think I killed him! They want me dead! And not just because I’m a white woman. Did you know all widows are unclean? If they can’t get rid of them on a funeral pyre they shut them up in a little room and never let them out. How long do you suppose I’d last out there? Without Prithvi to look out for me I’m just a target! This is the only place I feel safe. You have got a gun, haven’t you?’

  Joe nodded. First Bahadur, now Madeleine, both seeing themselves as potential victims. And both were seeking help from an outsider who was himself insecure and exposed in alien territory.

  ‘You can’t stay here! Imagine the gossip! What about your reputation? What about my reputation . . . I mean – how do I explain this to your father-in-law?’ he heard himself spluttering like a maiden aunt. ‘Look, Madeleine, can’t you go to your brother for help until you can both get out of here?’

  Madeleine gave him another of her long incredulous stares. ‘Stuart is . . . shall we say . . . otherwise engaged and would be very upset to receive a sisterly visit. He doesn’t even need to play chess to get the girls! And I notice you are admitting that this is a pretty hostile environment. Did you hear yourself say “get out of here” as in the sense of “escape from”? Well, that’s exactly what I’m going to do. I’m getting out, Joe. If I have to fly one of Prithvi’s planes to Delhi to do it! But I’m not going empty-handed. I gave him two years of my life and someone’s going to pay for those two years. I need to stay alive long enough to talk to Udai Singh . . . come to some agreement . . . and I can tell you – I’ve got my ticket out of here! And if you’ve any sense, you’ll be in the passenger seat when I take off, Joe.’

  ‘You’d oblige me, Madeleine, if you and your brother would remain in Ranipur for a while. You yourself, if y
ou remember, asked my opinion on the plane crash that killed your husband and the Resident also has asked me to investigate. You and your brother are vital to the investigation and you can’t leave until I’ve been able to gather evidence and statements.’

  Madeleine gave a derisive laugh. ‘Oh, yeah? Didn’t they tell you in Simla that the British have no legal or criminal jurisdiction in the princely states? You can detect all you like, Joe, and, sure, it would be good to know who’s killing the heirs but there’s nowhere you can go with the information. There’s nothing you can do but report back when you get out . . . If they let you get out!’

  Joe allowed himself a wry smile. ‘That’s an over-simple but – I have to say – incisive summary of my brief. Don’t tell me you’re on Sir George’s payroll too?’

  ‘Never met the guy.’

  ‘Anything left in that bottle?

  Joe’s mood was becoming less buoyant by the minute. Excitement and anger were ebbing away leaving a wistful sympathy for the hopelessness of Madeleine’s situation. He watched her with pity as she found two glasses and filled them clumsily with champagne. With sinking heart he guessed that she needed to talk through her grief with someone and resentfully wondered why she couldn’t have taken up Lizzie Macarthur’s offer of a safe haven and a sympathetic ear. But of course, he had an obvious attraction that Lizzie didn’t possess: in a desperate corner, a revolver and a steady hand will always win out over a parasol and a sharp tongue.

  He eyed her warily as she touched his glass with hers. ‘You’re a resourceful woman, Madeleine. But – tell me – what are your immediate plans?’

  ‘You mean how soon am I going to get out of your hair?’ She laughed. ‘Don’t concern yourself, Joe. Your virtue’s safe with me! I find dripping-wet, detumescent, disapproving cops totally resistible. I’m going to sleep there – on that couch. I’ve stolen a couple of your cushions. I’ve used your bathroom – brought my own toothbrush – so – it’s all yours!’

  She put down her glass, kicked off her shoes and stumbled towards the couch. ‘See you in the morning, Joe. Sweet dreams!’

  The champagne was still chilled, still fizzing and with a sharp edge that exactly reflected his mood. He took the bottle, surprised to find that it was only half empty. There seemed to be no good reason for not finishing it. He poured himself another glass and sipped quietly, sitting on the edge of his bed, waiting. After a few minutes of cushion pounding, wriggling and muffled oaths, his guest fell silent and still. When he was quite sure that Madeleine was asleep he went into his bathroom and spent long luxurious minutes under his lukewarm shower. Belatedly noticing that Madeleine had made off with his bathrobe he wandered naked out of the ghulskhana and crept silently around his room turning out lights, checking doors, windows, cupboards and even the space under his bed. Five minutes of reconnaissance in enemy territory could save your life and he was not going to let his guard slip now. He had learned on the North-West Frontier to be perpetually vigilant and though these silken, sophisticated surroundings in no way compared with that harsh hell-hole he thought they might in their own way prove even more lethal.

  He quietly closed the last wardrobe door.

  ‘I already checked all those,’ said an amused voice from the couch. ‘And that’s not all I’ve checked . . . Charming derrière, Commander!’

  Chapter Ten

  Joe awoke to a discreet cough at his side and the tinkle of china on a tray being placed on a table at the foot of his bed by a cheerful Govind who made his way to the bathroom and turned on the taps. Joe just managed to find his voice in time to prevent him from drawing back the curtains to let in the full searchlight of an Indian early morning sun. His brain was still in the middle of a double declutch but he felt certain there were aspects of the night he would not wish to have illuminated until he was fully in control of events once more.

  He lay low until Govind had disappeared. Where to start? His headache was not as bad as he feared it might be. Even more encouraging – there was no one sleeping on his couch. Or ever had been, to all appearances. All was neat, cushions back in place and surely that was his bathrobe hanging on the door? He sat up and called out softly, dreading to hear a reply: ‘Are you there, Madeleine?’

  No reply.

  Relief washed over him and for a moment he was tempted to allow himself the delusion that the events of the last evening had never occurred. The discovery of a still-warm place on the other side of his bed, an indented pillow and several golden hairs in that indentation brought an even more unpalatable scenario to mind. He’d drunk too much champagne but surely he would recall the intimacy implied by his finds? He felt about guiltily under the covers for other clues but found nothing more incriminating than a folded square of writing paper.

  ‘Didn’t Nancy ever complain that you talk in your sleep?’ was the short message.

  Almost as a signature the sound of a small aeroplane passed overhead. For a moment he thought it might be Madeleine heading off for Delhi but the plane circled and returned before flying off again towards the Aravalli hills.

  There was something he had to check on, he remembered, and, scrambling from his bed, he searched about in the waste paper basket and in all the corners where she might have abandoned an empty champagne bottle. There was only the one he remembered finishing himself. Madeleine had, he calculated, in spite of appearances – the husky gin-fogged voice, the mistimed gestures – actually drunk in his presence about a thimbleful of wine. Her first glass had been spilled on the floor, he remembered, and the bottle was chill and must have been almost full when he arrived.

  Madeleine was putting on a pretence of drunkenness. But why would she do that? Protective colouring perhaps? Drunks are never taken seriously. They are disregarded, an embarrassment; people look the other way when they enter a room. People underestimate them. He sighed as he realized that he had been misled into behaving like this towards Madeleine himself. And this had clearly been her intention. Poor little Madeleine, widowed and drowning her grief in a bottle. A common enough solution in India and therefore an easy deception but, if the drunkenness was a deception, what about the grief?

  Joe wondered again about Madeleine’s ambivalent attitude to her circumstances. She had loved her husband by all accounts whilst hating his home and family. If something had happened to upset the balance in her life . . . But, of course, something had happened. Something of earthshaking proportions for Madeleine. The oldest son had died. At a stroke, Prithvi the gadabout socialite who was quite prepared to spend the larger amount of his time living with princely abandon in Europe or America with his adored young wife was now next in line for the throne of Ranipur. Had he succumbed to pressures put on him in the weeks following his brother’s death, pressures to devote himself to the serious business of ruling, to return to family traditions, take an Indian wife to ensure the succession? How secure had Madeleine’s marriage been latterly?

  She had the technical skill and the opportunity to cut just the right number of steel threads to send her husband plummeting to the ground. Had she grown weary after two years of the stifling palace life of a princess – and a despised and disregarded princess at that? She had said something last night that had stayed with him through the mental fog into which he had descended. ‘I’ve got my ticket out of here!’ She was going to persuade the maharaja, by fair means or foul, to allow her to leave and not empty-handed. He wondered what exactly the ‘ticket’ consisted of.

  Perhaps her brother Stuart could shed a light on all this? Joe looked at his watch. Six o’clock and he was due to see him at nine. Time to do justice to the pot of coffee and the pile of toast Govind had just brought in. He thought he would leave the lid of the silver chafing dish which undoubtedly contained eggs in some form or another firmly in place. He’d enjoy a cool bath and then a head-clearing walk in the freshest air he would experience that day, heading out to the polo ground perhaps, keeping well clear of the women’s quarters and the town. Half an hour later, he put on
the white shirt, the light box cloth trousers and the riding jacket Govind had selected for him, snatched up a topee and set out.

  The sun was already beating down fiercely when he walked out of the palace at seven. As he strolled out on to the verandah looking across the undulating polo ground an elegant figure in riding habit mounted on a gleaming black Arab mare spotted him, turned and came on towards him.

  Third Her Highness was followed by a syce riding an equally fine horse a few yards behind. The red silk tunic and turban and the black trousers he wore had been carefully chosen, Joe guessed, to complement the white jodhpurs and black jacket of his mistress. Even the white egret pecking his way in their wake across the lawn seemed to involve himself in the frieze they presented. Raising a foot, the bird offered a hieroglyphic profile and stalked forward. Unconsciously, Shubhada echoed its movements, tilting an imperious nose that would have looked impressive on a coin.

  ‘Commander Sandilands. Good morning,’ she called. ‘I was surprised not to see you exercising earlier.’

  ‘I overslept, Your Highness,’ he said with a disarming smile. ‘Unused as I am to Rajput hospitality I indulged too recklessly in all the good things the palace has to offer.’

  Oh what the hell! If the palace grapevine was all it was cracked up to be she’d probably heard he’d defeated a Russian grand master and slept with a whole boardful of chess pieces.

  ‘Then I recommend a short canter.’ She turned and spoke to her syce who dismounted and led his horse over to Joe. ‘Shall we?’

  Luckily for Joe the horse was well into its morning exercise. He thought he would have had quite a struggle to control the magnificent animal coming straight from the stables.

  Shubhada led the way at a canter along the polo field and Joe began to enjoy himself, thankful that he’d remembered to put on the topee against the sun. It occurred to him that he was taking part in a very unusual scene. Maharanees like Shubhada would at any time in the past and, as far as he was aware, in the present, be kept well away from the eyes of any man and yet here she was riding off with him with the ease of any Western girl.