The Game mr-7

by Laurie R. King

  Three more steps and I halted, sharply putting out one hand to keep O’Hara from treading on my heels. There seemed to be someone at the main junction of the paths some fifty feet ahead of us, just after the lion cage. I couldn’t see in detail, but my heart sank at the figure’s size: one of the zoo-keeping dwarfs. And that was the only way past the cage: He couldn’t miss seeing us. I turned to whisper to my companions that we would have to retreat, when the short, sharp whistle of a night bird rang out from behind my shoulder. In a panic, I slapped my hand over the maharaja’s mouth, but it was slack. Goodheart—? But then I looked back at the junction and saw the small figure running in our direction. Oddly silent, but for the quick patter of feet on the gravel.

  A voice in my ear murmured, “My son.”

  Bindra it was, his black eyes sparkling even in the moonlight, his entire body wriggling like a puppy with his own cleverness.

  “What did you do with the horses?” I hissed at him.

  “Nesbit sahib loosed himself and came, and said he would watch them. Oah, he is so very angry at the three of you, he says to tell you that he will have you locked into the Umballa cantonment. My father, who is this man?”

  “His name is Goodheart,” O’Hara told him in English, then added in Hindi, “It remains to be seen if he lives up to his name.”

  “If he does not, I will beat him,” the child declared. “But, my father, I do think we need to be gone from this place. A little time ago, four angry soldiers came running down the road, and three of them went back, then I heard some others on the big road that goes between the two hills. I think maybe they have found that you have carried away their master.”

  “Hell,” I said. “That was quick. What now?”

  “Which way did the others go on the road?” Holmes asked the boy.

  “Down towards the valley, not the hills.”

  South, then, towards Khanpur city.

  “It’ll have to be the aeroplanes,” Holmes said decisively.

  “But we cannot go between the stables and the lake. The ground is open, and there are birds nesting all along the waterfront, just waiting to raise an alarm.”

  “Only one guard at the stables.”

  “Plus the syces.”

  “Russell, we waste time. Goodheart, take the maharaja. And if he makes a sound, you have my permission to bash his royal head in.”

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  The white gravel guided us from the zoo to the steps leading up to the path encircling the hill. The soldiers Bindra had heard pass were nowhere to be seen, although we expected with every step to come across the one left behind at the stables. Tom Goodheart, accomplished as he might be in amateur dramatics, failed miserably at surreptitious passage, his boots finding every twig and patch of gravel. Well short of the entrance to the compound, O’Hara stopped us.

  “Goodheart needs to remain here with the prince. My son and I will go ahead through the stables and locate the guard. Miss Russell ought to come with us, as she best knows the terrain. Mr Holmes, you perhaps should assist Goodheart, watching for the approach of trouble.” “Trouble” being either the royal guards or treachery from Goodheart, but no need to state it aloud. I caught the flash of O’Hara’s white grin. “Perhaps you can make the call of a bird if it comes?”

  He did not wait for any of us to disagree, and indeed, there was little reason: Holmes did not know the stables and I did; someone had to stay with the loud-footed Goodheart until the way was declared clear. I touch Holmes’ sleeve in passing, for the reassuring solidity of the arm beneath, then led the two O’Hara men down the steps.

  The domestic odours of hay and horse dung scrubbed the last reek of big cats from my nostrils as we descended towards the buildings. Before, I had followed the track through the grand archway and into the central yard, but I had also noticed a footway that wound around the back of the first block in the direction of the road. This was how we went, picking our way by the blue reflected light, pausing to look closely into each shadow that might hide a clever sentinel, lingering long before stepping across the narrow gap between two buildings. We found the path both clear and well illuminated by the huge moon moving down in the western sky, and walked its length all the way to the main road without seeing anyone.

  Back at the stables, O’Hara leant towards us and whispered, “I shall remain here. My son, you stop at the break between the buildings to watch. Miss Russell, you bring the others. And—perhaps the American would make less of a hubbub were he to remove his boots.”

  Bindra and I turned back, moving more quickly now that we’d been over the path once. He scurried in front, clearing the gap between the buildings with scarcely a glance. It was a mistake. I, two steps behind him, paid the price the instant I came even with the dark hole between the walls.

  “Thahro! Kaun hain?” split the night, followed closely by the terrifying sound of a round being chambered. One did not need to speak the language to know the command to freeze: I froze.

  And Bindra saved me, saved us all. Before I could do more than raise my hands in surrender, the child was at my side, mindless of the watchman’s gun, brisk and sure and heaven-sent.

  “Tum kaun hain?” he demanded in return, his voice a fraction lower than its usual youthful tones: Who is that?

  I thought he’d gone mad, and made to grab at his shoulders and dive for shelter but he moved too swiftly for me, striding openly down the narrow alleyway, talking all the while as my brain slowly squeezed out a translation.

  “Are you the guard here?” he was asking. “Why was there only one left behind? Where are the others?”

  His assumption of authority gave the other pause, and I belatedly realised that a resident of The Forts would be more apt to believe in an officious dwarf than someone in the outer world. I couldn’t see if the man’s finger loosed on his trigger, but I could feel it, could hear the loud tension in his voice give way to argument and, in less than a minute, irritation. No, he was here alone, and no, he’d had no such order, to wake the syces and send them to the Old Fort. Bindra took another step in his direction, hands on hips now and voice taking on an edge of incredulity.

  And then there came a dull crack, and the guard’s tirade was cut short in the sound of a falling body.

  “My son, that was done well,” came the low voice. “Go now.”

  We went, fast. Just not fast enough.

  The rumour of approaching turmoil reached me at the same instant a bird-call floated down from the road. Bindra whistled sharply in reply, and we met the others on the steps, Goodheart in his stocking feet and Holmes with the prisoner slung across his shoulders. Bindra led them down the path at a run, I brought up the rear, my shoulder blades crawling with the sounds of half a dozen heavy men trotting rapidly down the road: They would be upon us in minutes.

  At the stables entrance, O’Hara waved Holmes and Goodheart towards the main road, but made no sign of joining us.

  “What are you doing?” I demanded in a whisper.

  “My son and I will make a distraction with the horses. You take your gun to make certain Goodheart does not forget the controls of the aeroplane.”

  “You can’t stay here. They’ll kill you.”

  “If they catch us, they may try. But they will not catch us.”

  “I can’t leave you here. What would Nesbit say?”

  “Nesbit would say you are wasting what little time you have been given,” he answered, his voice calm.

  He was right. Damn it, he was right. I glanced down the road at the two tall and rapidly disappearing figures, then back at my companions, and stepped forward to seize Kimball O’Hara’s shoulders, kissing him on the cheek. To his son I offered my hand, and while shaking it, told him, “Bindra, it has been an experience. And just now, with the guard? That was phenomenal. Very fine work,” I added, by way of translation. “Thank you.”

  Then I left them and ran.

  When I reached the main road, I halted, listening to the loud neighs of horses
and the slamming of stable-doors, followed by more whinnying and snorting and the clatter of escaping hooves coming towards me, quickly drowning out the shouts of running men. I knew without thinking that these horses would be riderless, that the O’Haras would have taken others and ridden west, leading at least some of the guards away from the air field. Somewhere out there, God willing, they would slip down from the animals and hunker into hiding, for an hour or a day; sometime, God willing, they would make for the hills, and leave Khanpur at last.

  I waited just long enough to meet the stampeding horses. As they neared, I jumped from the northern edge of their path, waving my hands to frighten them into a mad gallop south, before I spun around to beat my own hasty retreat north.

  The two miles to the air field seemed twenty, but at last my feet hit the smooth runway, and faint sounds led me to our intended escape vehicle. The corrugation of its sides suggested that it was a Junkers—not, thank God, the three-engined monstrosity I’d seen parked to one side. Rather, it seemed to be the same F13 we’d arrived here in, and indeed, a glance inside confirmed it. I helped Holmes bind our now-mumbling prisoner into a seat. Goodheart was seated at the controls, muttering and cursing under his breath.

  “I hope to Hannah this crate’s got enough gas to get us out of here,” he said grimly. “No time to check. Where the hell’s the starter, anyway? Hey, I need somebody to undo the ties and take the blocks out from the wheels. And for God’s sake stay clear of the propeller.”

  I jumped down to loose the ropes and kick away the chocks, then climbed back onto the wing to await further instructions. Clearly, Goodheart knew what he was doing, and as far as I could see, he was not in any need of an encouraging revolver at the back of his neck. Holmes and I made sure that we were never both out of the aeroplane at the same time, but Goodheart seemed oblivious as he checked the instruments by the light of the aeroplane’s torch, tapped their glass faces and swore at them and threw switches.

  As I crouched near the door, my mind’s eye visualised the panicked horses slowing and being rounded up; the guards finding that we were not on their backs; the guards returning to the stables, where some would follow the lake-shore west in the footsteps of the O’Haras, while others came north to find . . .

  My brain snagged on some unrelated imagery, spitting up an alarm composed of: horses, running loose; cows, wandering loose; cows, being chased from the road in Hijarkot—

  “How do we know the runway is clear of animals?” I asked.

  “Oh God,” Goodheart groaned, and pounded a dial with his fist. I took that as his answer.

  “Holmes,” I said into the dim interior. “If we are discovered, get the maharaja away. I’ll make my way to Hijarkot.” I slid down the wing to the macadamized ground before he could object.

  The moon was brushing the western mountains, but I could see well enough to follow the smooth river of air strip that cut between the rough grassland on either side. I didn’t know just how much distance the aeroplane needed before it took to the air, but with four people on board, I decided to be conservative, and checked for sleeping bullocks all the way to the end. I found no bullocks, no living thing at all, but halfway back, there appeared to be some dark, tall shape near the machine’s left wing. I held up a hand to block the faint light from Goodheart’s cockpit torch, and it was still there. Not moving, and just the one, but it was the shape of a man.

  I pulled the revolver from my pocket and crept forward, wishing there was something I might hide behind: If the moonlight was sufficient to illuminate him, it would betray me as well.

  The man did nothing until I was perhaps fifty feet away. And then he spoke.

  “I say, is there something on?”

  “Who is it?” I demanded.

  “Jack Merriam. Er, the pilot?”

  I straightened. “Ex-RAF?”

  “Right-o. Is the maharaja on one of his stunts?”

  “You might say that.”

  “You need me to turn on the runway lights?”

  “That would be most excellent.”

  “Happy to. I do wish he’d tell me when he’s planning one of these night jaunts of his. I wouldn’t have to turn out when I heard noises.”

  “This was somewhat spur-of-the-moment. But I’ll mention it to him.”

  “I don’t mean to complain. I’ll get the lights, won’t be a tick.”

  When I tumbled back through the open door, I found Goodheart’s torch off.

  “Who the hell was that?” he hissed.

  “The pilot. He’s turning on the runway lights for us. Would that be helpful?”

  “Helpful? I thought I’d be doing this by torchlight. Thank God for the Brits. Hope the fellow doesn’t get into trouble.”

  “Too late to worry about that.”

  True to his word, the pilot illuminated our abduction of his employer. The bank of lights flared on, one block at a time, glaring onto the clean, smooth surface. Our engine caught, the propeller began to turn, and Goodheart pointed its nose between the twin rows of spotlights and revved the engine. We began to move, then to bounce, and on one of the bounces we hesitated briefly, then rose.

  But our escape did not go unrecognised by the men we left behind. The guards must have been near the air field even before the lights attracted their attention, because we’d only been airborne a few moments, and were about to bank around the high trees at the end of the runway, when the roar of noise within the machine changed in some indefinable way, and the air blew into our faces in a manner it had not before. I suddenly could see light from the runway, spilling in three clear circles punched through the floor.

  “The fools—they’re shooting!” Holmes cried.

  My body tried to crawl into itself, although there could be no escape, either from being hit directly, or from going down in a ball of flame. But Goodheart banked hard then, and the change in our outline, or the increased distance from their guns, or even their belated realisation that they might also be shooting at their prince, meant the end of it: No more holes appeared in the thin metal skin. When the plane’s wings had levelled out and we were aimed south, I uncurled to pat our waking prisoner from head to toe. It was a huge relief to find him unwounded: Explaining an abducted maharaja was going to be hard enough; a dead one might present real problems. The man himself appreciated neither concern. He glared at me over his gag, drugged and drunk still but angry; I checked his bindings and went back to Holmes.

  “He’s all right. Where are we heading?”

  “I don’t suppose you know if the British encampment has a parade grounds?”

  “I should very much doubt it, in these mountains.”

  “Then it’s Hijarkot.”

  I sighed, foreseeing the hell that would break loose the minute we set down with our kidnapped maharaja and no authority, no legal stance, no Geoffrey Nesbit to explain.

  I leant forward to yell into Holmes’ ear. “Mycroft is going to be absolutely mortified when he finds out that his sources misled him regarding Goodheart.”

  “These amateurs,” Holmes bellowed back, wagging his head in mock disapproval. “They present a continuous obstacle to the smooth running of the world.”

  Holmes shifted, intending to head forward and help Goodheart navigate his strange aeroplane across an impossible route between a place where men were shooting at us and a place where we would be unable to set down, over seventy miles of invisible and terrifying mountainside, by nothing but the fading moonlight. As he stood, I caught at his elbow and pulled him back so he could hear me.

  “The next time Mycroft asks us to do something,” I shouted to my husband, “we really must tell him no.”

  Chapter Thirty

  It took three days to fetch Nesbit out of his hiding place near the border of Khanpur, days we spent holed up in the nondescript villa amidst the corn while messages of outrage and command heated the telegraph cables between Delhi and London. More than once I thought we should have to make good our threat to use the variety o
f guns we had found in the house; more than once, the maharaja came near to escape. If nothing else, the period proved to our satisfaction that Thomas Goodheart was on the side of the angels. Or at any rate, on the same side as Sherlock Holmes and his wife.

  But on the third day, a tired-looking Geoffrey Nesbit rode into the front garden on an even tireder horse, and the machinery of government began to mesh again. That evening, the maharaja of Khanpur was quietly taken into custody to await His Majesty’s pleasure in the contemplation of crimes against the Crown and the people of Khanpur, and for the first time, we slept the night through, no patrols set, no rifles at our sides.

  We did not, I am sorry to say, see Kimball O’Hara or his son again. But the following afternoon, as we prepared to leave Nesbit’s villa, my eye was caught by a flash out of the hills to the east. I stood and watched, and it came again, and again.

  Holmes had noticed it as well, and stood at my side, reading the flares long and short.

  One long, three shorts: the letter B. Short, long, two shorts: L. Short: E. Three shorts: S.

  Blessings of the Compassionate One, said the message.

  And with that, Kimball O’Hara went home to his high mountains, with his son, and his rosary, and his secrets.

  Author’s Thanks

  As this volume’s opening dedication was meant to indicate, the Russell books would not exist without the passionate dedication of li brarians. I am particularly grateful to the staff at the McHenry Library of the University of California, Santa Cruz, who with endless good cheer unearth for people like me all those glorious treasures that are checked out once every thirty years, such as Malcolm Darling’s Rusticus Loquitur, a closely detailed account of his 1928 tour as Registrar for the Punjab Co-Operative Societies, or the 1924 treatise written by Sir Robert Baden-Powell (yes, the Boy Scout man) with that most evocative of titles, Pig-Sticking or Hog Hunting.

  I also thank Gordon Werne, of the Hiller Aviation Institute, for his good-humored expertise regarding antique planes, and Sirdar Tarlochan Singh, Ph.D., for details of Punjabi life. And anyone who has read into the time and place will realize how much the present work owes to Peter Hopkirk, not only for his brilliant expositions of the Victorian cold war—“The Great Game”—but specifically for his identification of Kimball O’Hara’s birth date in 1875. For Hopkirk’s and other titles, see my website, laurierking.com.