The Lady Sleuths MEGAPACK ™: 20 Modern and Classic Tales of Female Detectives

by Catherine Louisa Pirkis

  I had not; but I dissembled, so as to salve his pride. ‘Mr. Tillington’s friends are our friends,’ I answered, sententiously.

  ‘And Mr. Tillington’s friends are my friends,’ the Maharajah retorted, with a low bow to Elsie. ‘This is no doubt, Miss Petheridge. I have heard of your expected arrival, as you will guess, from Tillington. He and I were at Oxford together; I am a Merton man. It was Tillington who first taught me all I know of cricket. He took me to stop at his father’s place in Dumfriesshire. I owe much to his friendship; and when he wrote me that friends of his were arriving by the Jumna, why, I made haste to run down to Bombay to greet them.’

  The episode was one of those topsy-turvy mixtures of all places and ages which only this jumbled century of ours has witnessed; it impressed me deeply. Here was this Indian prince, a feudal Rajput chief, living practically among his vassals in the Middle Ages when at home in India; yet he said ‘I am a Merton man,’ as Harold himself might have said it; and he talked about cricket as naturally as Lord Southminster talked about the noble quadruped. The oddest part of it all was, we alone felt the incongruity; to the Maharajah, the change from Moozuffernuggar to Oxford and from Oxford back again to Moozuffernuggar seemed perfectly natural. They were but two alternative phases in a modern Indian gentleman’s education and experience.

  Still, what were we to do with him? If Harold had presented me with a white elephant I could hardly have been more embarrassed than I was at the apparition of this urbane and magnificent Hindoo prince. He was young; he was handsome; he was slim, for a rajah; he wore European costume, save for the huge white turban with its obtrusive diamond; and he spoke English much better than a great many Englishmen. Yet what place could he fill in my life and Elsie’s? For once, I felt almost angry with Harold. Why couldn’t he have allowed us to go quietly through India, two simple unofficial journalistic pilgrims, in our native obscurity?

  His Highness of Moozuffernuggar, however, had his own views on this question. With a courteous wave of one dusky hand, he motioned us gracefully into somebody else’s deck chairs, and then sat down on another beside us, while the gorgeous suite stood by in respectful silence—unctuous gentlemen in pink-and-gold brocade—forming a court all round us. Elsie and I, unaccustomed to be so observed, grew conscious of our hands, our skirts, our postures. But the Maharajah posed himself with perfect unconcern, like one well used to the fierce light of royalty. ‘I have come,’ he said, with simple dignity, ‘to superintend the preparations for your reception.’

  ‘Gracious heavens!’ I exclaimed. ‘Our reception, Maharajah? I think you misunderstand. We are two ordinary English ladies of the proletariat, accustomed to the level plain of professional society. We expect no reception.’

  He bowed again, with stately Eastern deference. ‘Friends of Tillington’s,’ he said, shortly, ‘are persons of distinction. Besides, I have heard of you from Lady Georgina Fawley.’

  ‘Lady Georgina is too good,’ I answered, though inwardly I raged against her. Why couldn’t she leave us alone, to feed in peace on dak-bungalow chicken, instead of sending this regal-mannered heathen to bother us?

  ‘So I have come down to Bombay to make sure that you are met in the style that befits your importance in society,’ he went on, waving his suite away with one careless hand, for he saw it fussed us. ‘I mentioned you to His Honour the Acting-Governor, who had not heard you were coming. His Honour’s aide-de-camp will follow shortly with an invitation to Government House while you remain in Bombay—which will not be many days, I don’t doubt, for there is nothing in this city of plague to stop for. Later on, during your progress up country, I do myself the honour to hope that you will stay as my guests for as long as you choose at Moozuffernuggar.’

  My first impulse was to answer: ‘Impossible, Maharajah; we couldn’t dream of accepting your kind invitation.’ But on second thoughts, I remembered my duty to my proprietor. Journalism first: inclination afterwards! My letter from Egypt on the rescue of the Englishwoman who escaped from Khartoum had brought me great éclat as a special correspondent, and the Daily Telephone now billed my name in big letters on its placards, so Mr. Elworthy wrote me. Here was another noble chance; must I not strive to rise to it? Two English ladies at a native court in Rajputana! that ought to afford scope for some rattling journalism!

  ‘It is extremely kind of you,’ I said, hesitating, ‘and it would give us great pleasure, were it feasible, to accept your friendly offer. But—English ideas, you know, prince! Two unprotected women! I hardly see how we could come alone to Moozuffernuggar, unchaperoned.’

  The Maharajah’s face lighted up; he was evidently flattered that we should even thus dubiously entertain his proposal. ‘Oh, I’ve thought about that, too,’ he answered, growing more colloquial in tone. ‘I’ve been some days in Bombay, making inquiries and preparations. You see, you had not informed the authorities of your intended visit, so that you were travelling incognito—or should it be incognita?—and if Tillington hadn’t written to let me know your movements, you might have arrived at this port without anybody’s knowing it, and have been compelled to take refuge in an hotel on landing.’ He spoke as if we had been accustomed all our lives long to be received with red cloth by the Mayor and Corporation, and presented with illuminated addresses and the freedom of the city in a gold snuff-box. ‘But I have seen to all that. The Acting-Governor’s aide-de-camp will be down before long, and I have arranged that if you consent a little later to honour my humble roof in Rajputana with your august presence, Major Balmossie and his wife will accompany you and chaperon you. I have lived in England: of course I understand that two English ladies of your rank and position cannot travel alone—as if you were Americans. But Mrs. Balmossie is a nice little soul, of unblemished character’—that sweet touch charmed me—‘received at Government House’—he had learned the respect due to Mrs. Grundy—‘so that if you will accept my invitation, you may rest assured that everything will be done with the utmost regard to the—the unaccountable prejudices of Europeans.’

  His thoughtfulness took me aback. I thanked him warmly. He unbent at my thanks. ‘And I am obliged to you in return,’ he said. ‘It gives me real pleasure to be able, through you, to repay Harold Tillington part of the debt I owe him. He was so good to me at Oxford. Miss Cayley, you are new to India, and therefore—as yet—no doubt unprejudiced. You treat a native gentleman, I see, like a human being. I hope you will not stop long enough in our country to get over that stage—as happens to most of your countrymen and countrywomen. In England, a man like myself is an Indian prince; in India, to ninety-nine out of a hundred Europeans, he is just “a damned nigger.”’

  I smiled sympathetically. ‘I think,’ I said, venturing under these circumstances on a harmless little swear-word—of course, in quotation marks—‘you may trust me never to reach “damn-nigger” point.’

  ‘So I believe,’ he answered, ‘if you are a friend of Harold Tillington’s. Ebony or ivory, he never forgot we were two men together.’

  Five minutes later, when the Maharajah had gone to inquire about our luggage, Lord Southminster strolled up. ‘Oh, I say, Miss Cayley,’ he burst out, ‘I’m off now; ta-ta: but remembah, that offah’s always open. By the way, who’s your black friend? I couldn’t help laughing at the airs the fellah gave himself. To see a niggah sitting theah, with his suite all round him, waving his hands and sunning his rings, and behaving for all the world as if he were a gentleman; it’s reahly too ridiculous. Harold Tillington picked up with a fellah like that at Oxford—doosid good cricketer too; wondah if this is the same one?’

  ‘Good-bye, Lord Southminster,’ I said, quietly, with a stiff little bow. ‘Remember, on your side, that your “offer” was rejected once for all last night. Yes, the Indian prince is Harold Tillington’s friend, the Maharajah of Moozuffernuggar—whose ancestors were princes while ours were dressed in woad and oak-leaves. But you were right abo
ut one thing; he behaves—like a gentleman.’

  ‘Oh, I say,’ the pea-green young man ejaculated, drawing back; ‘that’s anothah in the eye for me. You’re a good ‘un at facers. You gave me one for a welcome, and you give me one now for a parting shot. Nevah mind though, I can wait; you’re backing the wrong fellah—but you’re not the Ethels, and you’re well worth waiting for.’ He waved his hand. ‘So-long! See yah again in London.’

  And he retired, with that fatuous smile still absorbing his features.

  * * * *

  Our three days in Bombay were uneventful; we merely waited to get rid of the roll of the ship, which continued to haunt us for hours after we landed—the floor of our bedrooms having acquired an ugly trick of rising in long undulations, as if Bombay were suffering from chronic earthquake. We made the acquaintance of His Honour the Acting Governor, and His Honour’s consort. We were also introduced to Mrs. Balmossie, the lady who was to chaperon us to Moozuffernuggar. Her husband was a soldierly Scotchman from Forfarshire, but she herself was English—a flighty little body with a perpetual giggle. She giggled so much over the idea of the Maharajah’s inviting us to his palace that I wondered why on earth she accepted his invitation. At this she seemed surprised. ‘Why, it’s one of the jolliest places in Rajputana,’ she answered, with a bland Simla smile; ‘so picturesque—he, he, he—and so delightful. Simpkin flows like water— Simpkin’s baboo English for champagne, you know—he, he, he; and though of course the Maharajah’s only a native like the rest of them—he, he, he—still, he’s been educated at Oxford, and has mixed with Europeans, and he knows how to make one—he, he, he—well, thoroughly comfortable.’

  ‘But what shall we eat?’ I asked. ‘Rice, ghee, and chupatties?’

  ‘Oh dear no—he, he, he—Europe food, every bit of it. Foie gras, and York ham, and wine ad lib. His hospitality’s massive. If it weren’t for that, of course, one wouldn’t dream of going there. But Archie hopes some day to be made Resident, don’t you know; and it will do him no harm—he, he, he—with the Foreign Office, to have cultivated friendly relations beforehand with His Highness of Moozuffernuggar. These natives—he, he, he—so absurdly sensitive!’

  For myself, the Maharajah interested me, and I rather liked him. Besides, he was Harold’s friend, and that was in itself sufficient recommendation. So I determined to push straight into the heart of native India first, and only afterwards to do the regulation tourist round of Agra and Delhi, the Taj and the mosques, Benares and Allahabad, leaving the English and Calcutta for the tail-end of my journey. It was better journalism; as I thought that thought, I began to fear that Mr. Elworthy was right after all, and that I was a born journalist.

  On the day fixed for our leaving Bombay, whom should I meet but Lord Southminster—with the Maharajah—at the railway station!

  He lounged up to me with that eternal smile still vaguely pervading his empty features. ‘Well, we shall have a jolly party, I gathah,’ he said. ‘They tell me this niggah is famous for his tigahs.’

  I gazed at him, positively taken aback. ‘You don’t mean to tell me,’ I cried, ‘you actually propose to accept the Maharajah’s hospitality?’

  His smile absorbed him. ‘Yaas,’ he answered twirling his yellow moustache, and gazing across at the unconscious prince, who was engaged in overlooking the arrangements for our saloon carriage. ‘The black fellah discovahed I was a cousin of Harold’s, so he came to call upon me at the club, of which some Johnnies heah made me an honorary membah. He’s offahed me the run of his place while I’m in Indiah, and, of course, I’ve accepted. Eccentric sort of chap; can’t make him out myself: says anyone connected with Harold Tillington is always deah to him. Rum start, isn’t it?’

  ‘He is a mere Oriental,’ I answered, ‘unused to the ways of civilised life. He cherishes the superannuated virtue of gratitude.’

  ‘Yaas; no doubt—so I’m coming along with you.’

  I drew back, horrified. ‘Now? While I am there? After what I told you last week on the steamer?’

  ‘Oh, that’s all right. I bear yah no malice. If I want any fun, of course I must go while you’re at Moozuffernuggar.’

  ‘Why so?’

  ‘Yah see, this black boundah means to get up some big things at his place in your honah; and one naturally goes to stop with anyone who has big things to offah. Hang it all, what does it mattah who a fellah is if he can give yah good shooting? It’s shooting, don’t yah know, that keeps society in England togethah!’

  ‘And therefore you propose to stop in the same house with me!’ I exclaimed, ‘in spite of what I have told you! Well, Lord Southminster, I should have thought there were limits which even your taste——’

  He cut me short with an inane grin. ‘There you make your blooming little erraw,’ he answered, airily. ‘I told yah, I keep my offah still open; and, hang it all, I don’t mean to lose sight of yah in a hurry. Some other fellah might come along and pick you up when I wasn’t looking; and I don’t want to miss yah. In point of fact, I don’t mind telling yah, I back myself still for a couple of thou’ soonah or latah to marry yah. It’s dogged as does it; faint heart, they say, nevah won fair lady!’

  If it had not been that I could not bear to disappoint my Indian prince, I think, when I heard this, I should have turned back then and there at the station.

  The journey up country was uneventful, but dusty. The Mofussil appears to consist mainly of dust; indeed, I can now recall nothing of it but one pervading white cloud, which has blotted from my memory all its other components. The dust clung to my hair after many washings, and was never really beaten out of my travelling clothes; I believe part of it thus went round the world with me to England. When at last we reached Moozuffernuggar, after two days’ and a night’s hard travelling, we were met by a crowd of local grandees, who looked as if they had spent the greater part of their lives in brushing back their whiskers, and we drove up at once, in European carriages, to the Maharajah’s palace. The look of it astonished me. It was a strange and rambling old Hindoo hill-fort, high perched on a scarped crag, like Edinburgh Castle, and accessible only on one side, up a gigantic staircase, guarded on either hand by huge sculptured elephants cut in the living sandstone. Below clustered the town, an intricate mass of tangled alleys. I had never seen anything so picturesque or so dirty in my life; as for Elsie, she was divided between admiration for its beauty and terror at the big-whiskered and white-turbaned attendants.

  ‘What sort of rooms shall we have?’ I whispered to our moral guarantee, Mrs. Balmossie.

  ‘Oh, beautiful, dear,’ the little lady smirked back. ‘Furnished throughout—he, he, he—by Liberty. The Maharajah wants to do honour to his European guests—he, he, he—he fancies, poor man, he’s quite European. That’s what comes of sending these creatures to Oxford! So he’s had suites of rooms furnished for any white visitors who may chance to come his way. Ridiculous, isn’t it? And champagne—oh, gallons of it! He’s quite proud of his rooms, he, he, he—he’s always asking people to come and occupy them; he thinks he’s done them up in the best style of decoration.’

  He had reason, for they were as tasteful as they were dainty and comfortable. And I could not for the life of me make out why his hospitable inclination should be voted ‘ridiculous.’ But Mrs. Balmossie appeared to find all natives alike a huge joke together. She never even spoke of them without a condescending smile of distant compassion. Indeed, most Anglo-Indians seem first to do their best to Anglicise the Hindoo, and then to laugh at him for aping the Englishman.

  After we had been three days at the palace and had spent hours in the wonderful temples and ruins, the Maharajah announced with considerable pride at breakfast one morning that he had got up a tiger-hunt in our special honour.

  Lord Southminster rubbed his hands.

  ‘Ha, that’s right, Maharaj,’ he said, briskly. ‘I do love big game. T
o tell yah the truth, old man, that’s just what I came heah for.’

  ‘You do me too much honour,’ the Hindoo answered, with quiet sarcasm. ‘My town and palace may have little to offer that is worth your attention; but I am glad that my big game, at least, has been lucky enough to attract you.’

  The remark was thrown away on the pea-green young man. He had described his host to me as ‘a black boundah.’ Out of his own mouth I condemned him—he supplied the very word—he was himself nothing more than a born bounder.

  During the next few days, the preparations for the tiger-hunt occupied all the Maharajah’s energies. ‘You know, Miss Cayley,’ he said to me, as we stood upon the big stairs, looking down on the Hindoo city, ‘a tiger-hunt is not a thing to be got up lightly. Our people themselves don’t like killing a tiger. They reverence it too much. They’re afraid its spirit might haunt them afterwards and bring them bad luck. That’s one of our superstitions.’

  ‘You do not share it yourself, then?’ I asked.

  He drew himself up and opened his palms, with a twinkling of pendant emeralds. ‘I am royal,’ he answered, with naïve dignity, ‘and the tiger is a royal beast. Kings know the ways of kings. If a king kills what is kingly, it owes him no grudge for it. But if a common man or a low caste man were to kill a tiger—who can say what might happen?’

  I saw he was not himself quite free from the superstition.

  ‘Our peasants,’ he went on, fixing me with his great black eyes, ‘won’t even mention the tiger by name, for fear of offending him: they believe him to be the dwelling-place of a powerful spirit. If they wish to speak of him, they say, “the great beast,” or “my lord, the striped one.” Some think the spirit is immortal except at the hands of a king. But they have no objection to see him destroyed by others. They will even point out his whereabouts, and rejoice over his death; for it relieves the village of a serious enemy, and they believe the spirit will only haunt the huts of those who actually kill him.’