Keeping Bad Company

by Caro Peacock

  ‘Excuse me.’

  Even Amos jumped with surprise, a thing I should not have credited if I hadn’t been standing so close to him. The white figure seemed to have materialized out of nowhere.

  ‘Have I the honour of speaking to Miss Lane?’

  The pronunciation of the words was correct and precise, only the rhythm distinguishing him from a native English speaker. It was the Indian gentleman. Amos stepped between us.

  ‘What do you think you’re doing?’

  The man’s words were muffled by the bulk of Amos, but he went on speaking to me as if Amos weren’t there.

  ‘I should very much appreciate an opportunity to talk to you and your brother.’

  Although my heart was thumping, I knew we couldn’t miss this chance.

  ‘And we should very much appreciate a chance to talk to you,’ I said, trying to keep my voice calm. ‘Only, not now.’

  ‘Indeed. When do you suggest?’

  ‘There’s a reservoir pond in the park, near Grosvenor Gate. Do you know it?’

  ‘Yes, I know it.’

  ‘We’ll be there at midday tomorrow.’

  ‘Very well. Thank you.’

  Then he was gone as suddenly as he’d arrived.

  ‘Well, that’s a turn-up,’ Amos said, restored to his usual calm. He walked with me to the foot of my staircase. ‘I’ll wait out there till I’m sure that one’s out of the way.’

  I wondered how the man had known where I lived, or that Tom was my brother. I told Amos there was no need to worry, but it was comforting to look down from my room at his dark shape standing at the horse’s head. I was more than half asleep by the time the clarence rolled away.

  EIGHTEEN

  He was waiting for us, an upright figure in pale clothes beside the reservoir pond, apparently oblivious of curious glances from Sunday morning strollers in the park. When we came near him he put the palms of his hands together and bowed his head, a gesture mirrored by Tom. I’d agreed that Tom should do the talking. He knew India, after all.

  ‘It seems you know who we are, sir,’ Tom said. ‘You have the advantage of us.’

  ‘Jaswant Patwardhan, at your service. I wish I had known you intended to visit our boat. I could have offered you better hospitality. And more convenient ingress.’

  His voice and manner were entirely serious, but there was a glint in his dark eyes. Tom was floundering in surprise and embarrassment, so I took a hand.

  ‘We were looking for a boy,’ I said.

  He looked at me, assessing.

  ‘Any boy in particular, Miss Lane?’

  ‘His name is Anil. He worked for Mr Griffiths.’

  Tom was annoyed with me for stepping in, but it had given him time to recover and take up the conversation as we’d planned.

  ‘Mr Patwardhan, I assure you that we do not intend to pry into your activities, but Mr Griffiths was a good friend of mine and I owe him a duty to find out what I can about how he died.’

  ‘Will that give him life again?’

  The glint was still there, but Mr Patwardhan’s question seemed serious rather than mocking.

  ‘In our country, taking your own life is considered dishonourable,’ Tom said. ‘Isn’t it right to try to protect a friend’s honour?’

  A nod of the turbaned head conceded the point.

  ‘You came to his funeral,’ Tom said. ‘Was that out of respect for him?’

  ‘Respect was due to him.’

  ‘Was he a friend of yours?’

  ‘I met him only recently. But he was a friend of a very good friend of mine.’

  ‘Was one of the times you met him the Saturday before he was found dead?’ I asked.

  I could see Tom was annoyed with me for butting in, but at this rate Mr Patwardhan and Tom would go on exchanging careful courtesies until the pigeons roosted. Mr Patwardhan turned to me, not seeming at all put out by the question.

  ‘Yes, that is so.’

  ‘Why did you go to see him?’

  The silence that followed my question wasn’t discourteous. Mr Patwardhan was considering. In the course of it I noticed a tall groom on a bay cob giving a riding lesson to a boy on a pony. He had the pony on a leading rein. Amos had said nothing about keeping close by when we met the Indian gentleman, but I wasn’t surprised to see him. Mr Patwardhan made up his mind.

  ‘If you would condescend to take a short journey with me, I shall be better able to answer your questions.’

  He raised a hand. Although he wasn’t even looking in its direction, a plain carriage that had been waiting further up the ride came towards us. I recognized it as the livery stable vehicle from Richmond. When it stopped beside us, Mr Patwardhan politely opened the door and got in behind us. As soon as we’d sat down, and without further directions being given, the carriage turned round the reservoir, trotted northwards up the ride, then headed west along the upper boundary of the park. Looking out from the window, I saw Amos and the pony cutting across the grass to keep up with us, his pupil getting a probably premature lesson in trotting. After a few minutes we stopped by a grove of trees. Mr Patwardhan had his hand out to help me to the ground. Usually it would have been an unnecessary courtesy, but this time it was just as well because I nearly fell backwards into the coach in surprise at what was there. A ray of sunshine had come out between clouds like a light in a pantomime and was illuminating a scene from the east that had somehow been picked up and transported to Hyde Park.

  The trees, in pale young leaf, were what English trees always were. A small flock of sheep grazed on the far side of the grove. Barouches and phaetons with people out for a Sunday morning airing went gliding past only yards away. But here, on the edge of the trees, was a pavilion like something from a fairy tale or, at the very least, a shelter for fine ladies at the most aristocratic sort of picnic. The fabric was royal blue, embroidered with silver stars. The flaps of the pavilion were turned back, revealing a lining of paler silk. A small pennant in silver, black and blue flapped from the top of the pavilion in the breeze. Further off, on the far side of the grove, a plain fourgon carriage was resting on its shafts, proving at least that this splendour had arrived by mortal means. Mr Patwardhan walked up to the pavilion and stood aside, indicating that Tom and I should go first. The entrance was high enough to walk in without stooping. Inside, the light was dim, sun filtered through layers of silk. The air was full of a strange, spicy smell. At first I could see nothing. It must have been the same for Tom, standing beside me. I was aware that there was at least one person inside the pavilion, and that he or she must be getting a good view of us while we were at a disadvantage. Then a throaty chuckle, unmistakeably female: ‘Welcome. Won’t you sit down, please.’

  The first thing I saw were the eyes, gleaming like a tiger’s out of the dark. The voice, with a strong Indian accent, had come from waist height. Gradually I made out a figure sitting on a pile of cushions, leaning against a kind of carved bedhead, comfortable as a cat. The folds of her sari spread round her like water. Green and red jewels glowed on her fingers in the dim light. Nearer us, on a carpet, were carved stools with cushions, designed to be folded up and carried as camp chairs, but richly carved and gilded. I sat and so did Tom. Mr Patwardhan stood between us and the tent flap. As my eyes adjusted to the dim light I saw that the woman’s face was sharp, skin stretched tight over prominent cheekbones, creased round the mouth and eyes, but the eyes themselves were as large and bright as a girl’s. They moved unblinkingly from Tom to me. There was a challenge in them.

  ‘You’re Mr Griffiths’s princess,’ I said.

  It had come to me that second and there was no time to think whether it was wise to say it or not. It was partly the setting and the way she was sitting, but more than that. Since reading Mr Griffiths’s story, the woman at the centre of it had stayed in my mind. Beautiful, of course, but daring and ruthless as well. She’d have had to be, to plot on such a grand scale. There’d been cruelty there too in the way she used people. I’d se
en all of those things when this woman looked at me, but then she hadn’t been trying to hide them. Behind me, Mr Patwardhan shifted his weight, surprised. Tom was looking at me as if I’d gone mad.

  ‘I was many people’s princess,’ she said.

  I tried to keep looking at her as steadily as she was looking at me.

  ‘Why have you come here?’ I said.

  ‘He will explain.’ She gestured towards Mr Patwardhan and added, ‘He’s what you might call my prime minister.’

  It was ridiculous, of course. She had no country to rule. Even in Mr Griffiths’s account, her estate was no more than a castle, servants and animals, and it would almost certainly have dwindled rather than grown. And yet it didn’t seem ridiculous. Even here in a foreign country she was creating her own setting. Meeting in some ordinary room might have diminished her, so she kept court in a tent in the park. Mr Patwardhan spoke from behind us.

  ‘The Rani knew that your parliament were discussing things that concerned her. She decided she should be present in London.’

  ‘Did Mr Griffiths ask you to come here?’ Tom spoke direct to the woman – or rather the Rani – but the answer came from Mr Patwardhan.

  ‘The Rani makes her own decisions.’

  With her eyes turned to Tom, mine were free to take in more of the surroundings. A curtain from floor to ceiling divided off another part of the tent. Servants’ quarters, presumably. In the shadowed angle between tent wall and curtain, another woman was sitting on a cushion, legs folded, sari over her head, eyes modestly downcast and hands together. The Rani’s maid, probably.

  ‘Is my sister right? You’re the Rani Rukhamini Joshi?’ Tom said.

  Apart from anything else, that would make her heir to quite a large sum of money under Mr Griffiths’s will. Or perhaps not so large by her standards.

  ‘That’s so,’ Mr Patwardhan’s voice confirmed from behind us.

  I was growing tired of this game. Perhaps the Rani sensed that, because she glanced at me.

  ‘Why wouldn’t you talk to me when I came out to Richmond?’ I said.

  ‘Because we didn’t know who you were.’ From Mr Patwardhan again.

  I kept my eyes on the Rani.

  ‘I think you knew very well,’ I said to her. ‘You knew a lot of things. You knew Mr Griffiths was dead and you knew about the funeral. I saw you in the coach there. You must have had somebody keeping watch on Tom.’

  ‘And you on us.’ The Rani said it without resentment, as if it were only to be expected. ‘What did you expect to find in my ship?’

  ‘The body of Mr Griffiths’s servant, Anil,’ I said.

  The tent was quiet, apart from the harness jingle and wheel swish on the carriage drive a few hundred yards away. Goodness knows what people out for a Sunday drive made of the sudden appearance of an eastern pavilion. Some fête, probably. The Rani considered and made her decision.

  ‘We shall have some tea.’

  I’d have expected the maid to get up and attend to it, but it was her prime minister who disappeared behind the curtain. While he was gone she didn’t attempt to make conversation and sat looking down at her rings, with no sign of tension or even acknowledgement that Tom and I were still present. Nobody moved until the curtain was drawn aside and Mr Patwardhan came back, followed by a boy carrying a tray. The boy was dressed in trousers, tunic and turban. Carefully, he set out cups and a brass pot on the table. Over his head, the Rani’s eyes met mine.

  ‘I’m glad to see Anil again,’ I said.

  Tom spoilt the calm effect I was aiming for by giving a gasp of surprise, but then he hadn’t been paying much attention to the boy. For some reason, his eyes were on the maid who hadn’t moved. Anil served us tea, giving no indication that anything out of the way was happening.

  ‘I think we should trade,’ I said to the Rani. ‘What we know for what you know.’

  Vulgar, I knew, but guessed that straight talking was the only hope of getting anything from her. The slightest down and up movement of her chin gave agreement.

  ‘You first,’ she said.

  No point in arguing.

  ‘Mr Griffiths had always felt guilty about what happened to you,’ I said. ‘He was angry about opium too. He was making a last attempt at putting things right, as far as he could, by publishing his story. The merchant Alexander McPherson – you knew him – didn’t want that. Among other things, Mr Griffiths was as good as accusing him of stealing your jewels.’

  In point of fact, her brother’s jewels or her state’s jewels, but nobody seemed to be worrying about that any more. I waited for some reaction from her, but it didn’t come.

  ‘Somebody killed Mr Griffiths,’ I said. ‘Whoever it was made it look as if he’d killed himself. Your prime minister visited him on a Saturday evening. On the Monday morning he was found dead. His servant disappeared then reappeared with you in Richmond. At the very least, you know more about how and why Mr Griffiths died than we do.’

  The Rani’s eyes closed. The skin of her eyelids was thin and papery. Until then I hadn’t even seen her blink and thought it was a first sign of distress, even guilt. But when she spoke, the chuckle was back in her voice.

  ‘Are you saying I had him killed?’

  ‘Did you?’

  ‘Why should I?’

  ‘If you were planning to smuggle opium and he found out about it, he’d feel angry, betrayed even. He’d try to stop it.’

  Another surprised movement from Mr Patwardhan, but the Rani was smiling.

  ‘And I’m smuggling opium, am I?’

  ‘We found a chest of it yesterday night, on board the Calypso.’

  ‘Did you take it away?’

  That urgently from Mr Patwardhan. Even the Rani seemed anxious for an answer.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Or tell some officials?’

  Tom cut in before I could answer. ‘We told nobody and left it exactly as it was.’

  He might even have gone on to apologize if I hadn’t spoken first.

  ‘We don’t want to pry into your affairs except as far as they concern Mr Griffiths’s death. That’s all we have to trade. Now it’s your turn.’

  This time she spoke to us directly, not through her prime minister. Her tone was measured and unemotional, as if she’d worked out all she was going to say in advance.

  ‘Mr Griffiths discovered that I had come to London. He was distressed to hear that we were living in most unsatisfactory accommodation and offered us the use of his small serai.’

  So that was why Mr Griffiths had moved out of his comfortable cottage. It might also explain the money order waiting to be sent on his desk, if the Rani had been temporarily or permanently embarrassed for money.

  ‘When we met, Mr Griffiths told me of his determination to see that I was compensated for my loss and the pamphlet he intended to publish. I approved it, but there were some points that were not altogether as things happened. I considered this for some time, then sent Mr Patwardhan to tell him. It was too late. The pamphlet had gone to the printer. But Mr Griffiths was interested in what I had to say. He said he would think about it and asked Mr Patwardhan to return in two days.’

  I’d have liked to ask what was the new information she’d sent to Mr Griffiths, but she wasn’t the kind of person you interrupted.

  ‘Mr Patwardhan went to his lodgings the following evening. He found another person present. The man was Alexander McPherson.’

  This time I couldn’t help interrupting.

  ‘In Mr Griffiths’s lodgings? When was this?’

  ‘As you said, the Saturday.’

  ‘And McPherson was actually there with Mr Griffiths? What was he doing?’

  While she was speaking, Mr Patwardhan had come to stand beside her. Now she nodded to him to take up the story.

  ‘Drinking sherry,’ Mr Patwardhan said.

  ‘Just standing there, drinking his sherry?’

  ‘Not standing. Sitting opposite Mr Griffiths. They were both drinking sherry.
’

  I was imagining confrontation, even violence. The picture faded, leaving total puzzlement.

  ‘As if they were friends?’

  Mr Patwardhan considered. ‘I shouldn’t say friends. Rather two opponents who had agreed a necessary truce. Which indeed was the case. Mr Griffiths introduced us, then he said something that I remember word for word. “I still abhor what this man is doing in the way of trade, but I think he will keep his word, particularly since he has very little choice.” Mr McPherson was not pleased, not pleased at all. He said choice or not, he was a gentleman and always kept his word. I drank a cup of tea, then Mr Griffiths said I should please go away and come back the following day, the Sunday. He said they – meaning himself and Mr McPherson – were going to do something which the Rani should not know about until it had taken place. He asked me to come in the evening after dark, on foot, so as not to be noticed.’

  A silence. I was trying to adjust to this picture of Mr Griffiths as a plotter. I think Tom was too, because when he spoke his voice was like somebody coming back from a long way away.

  ‘And you went back the following evening and found Mr Griffiths dead?’

  ‘No. I went back and found Mr Griffiths very much alive and pleased with himself. His last words as he saw us off in the carriage were to tell the Rani that he’d do himself the honour to call on her in the next day or two.’

  ‘Who’s “us”?’ I said. ‘And what carriage? He’d told you to send your carriage away.’

  ‘There’s an alleyway beside his lodgings, and a back gate. He had another carriage waiting there. The boy Anil came with us. The Rani found it impossible to get proper servants here, so Mr Griffiths said he would lend Anil.’