The room was as plain as the rest of the building: a single bed, a wardrobe, a chair, a desk with a hurricane lamp sitting on it, and a picture of George V on the wall. Still, it was clean, and in India you couldn’t really ask for much more.
Closing the door, I put down my case and sat down on the bed. I lit a cigarette, took a long pull and marvelled at the fates that had led me to this bare room in Sambalpore, pursuing a case against the wishes of the Viceroy and in a place where I had zero authority. As starts went, it hardly seemed auspicious, despite Surrender-not’s father’s views about the rain.
Still, just being in Sambalpore felt like progress. The obvious task was to track down whoever had sent those warning notes to Adhir. I had certain suspicions in that regard, but how exactly I was going to pursue them when I was technically on holiday was something I hadn’t yet worked out. That, though, could wait. My immediate concern centred on what I was going to say to the Maharaja.
TWELVE
The sun was high in the sky. You couldn’t see it, but you could feel it, and the air smelled charred, coated with dust.
The old Austin wheezed its way towards the palace through the swirling currents of small-town India: the hawkers with their carts, their hoarse voices beseeching custom; the thin farmers sitting cross-legged in the shade of knotted and twisted pipal trees, imploring the townswomen to take a look at their produce, everything from bitter gourds to watermelons, all laid out on brightly coloured sheets.
‘So what do you know about our illustrious ruler?’ asked Carmichael.
‘Not much,’ I replied.
‘In that case,’ he said enthusiastically, ‘I should give you the potted history.’
I had the feeling he had the whole thing down pat.
‘The Maharaja – Rajan Kumar Sai – aged seventy-six and ruler of Sambalpore since 1858. Born into a poor, but high-caste, farming family, he came to the throne when, on the advice of his soothsayers, the previous maharaja adopted him on his deathbed as his heir, in an attempt to avoid falling foul of the old Doctrine of Lapse.’
Carmichael read my expression.
‘The Doctrine of Lapse,’ he explained, ‘was enacted by the then Viceroy, Lord Dalhousie. It allowed the East India Company to annex any princely state whose ruler died without a legitimate male heir or was deemed to be manifestly incompetent.’
‘And what constituted manifest incompetence?’ I asked.
That was for the Company to decide.’ He grinned. ‘Through it, they acquired some of the mineral-rich kingdoms that might otherwise have remained in less forward-thinking native hands. It’s proved pretty handy for the India Office, too. It allowed us to get rid of the old Gaekwad of Baroda on the pretext that he’d tried to poison his British Resident’s grapefruit juice.’
‘So why wasn’t Sambalpore annexed when the old maharaja died?’ asked Surrender-not.
‘Ah,’ said Carmichael, ‘you must remember that this was 1858, the year after the Mutiny. London had just stripped the East India Company of its hegemony and the whole of India was in flux. Power had shifted from the money men of the Company to the civil servants of the India Office, and stability rather than profit was the new order of the day. The former maharaja had supported the British the previous year and it was felt that it was better to have a steady ally in Sambalpore than to take on more lands that needed administration. It was one of those curious twists of fate. Had the old maharaja died five years earlier, or indeed five years later, the kingdom probably wouldn’t exist today.’
The driver braked sharply as a skeletal grey cow wandered lazily into the road. He manoeuvred the car around the lumbering animal, which paid us scant attention as it chewed on a mouthful of cane leaves.
‘The current maharaja has overseen the modernisation of Sambalpore,’ continued Carmichael, ‘though his reforms have not extended into the political sphere. Power is maintained in the hands of the Maharaja and his sons.’
‘How many sons does he have?’ I asked.
‘Until the tragic assassination of the Yuvraj, he had three recognised heirs to the throne, sons borne by his official wives. Those borne by his concubines have no claim to the throne.’
‘Concubines?’
‘He had a hundred and twenty-six of them as at the end of last March,’ Carmichael continued, ‘and two hundred and fifty-six offspring, not counting the three official princes. We receive a copy of the kingdom’s annual financial report. It’s all set out in a note to the accounts.’
‘Tell me about the princes,’ I said.
‘The only three children with a recognised claim to the throne were the Yuvraj Adhir Singh Sai, now deceased, and his brother, Prince Punit, aged twenty-nine, both sons of the Second Maharani, and their half-brother, Prince Alok, aged eighteen months, son of the Third Maharani. You may recall the newspaper reports last year of the Maharaja ordering his swimming pool to be filled with champagne to celebrate the child’s birth.’
‘Siring a child in your seventies is a cause for celebration, I suppose,’ I said. ‘Are we sure the Maharaja is the father?’
‘Oh yes,’ replied Carmichael. ‘Other than the Maharaja and his legitimate sons, the only other men who would have been within fifty feet of the Maharani in private would all be eunuchs. For such an old roué, the old man is remarkably strict about these things.
‘It’s not all vice, though; the Maharaja has his virtues too,’ he continued. ‘He’s overseen the development of Sambalpore from an illiterate feudal society to one with health and education levels on a par with those in Calcutta or Delhi. He’s brought electricity to the kingdom, though it’s limited mainly to Sambalpore town, and agricultural practices have been modernised, though he still owns most of the land. And he’s paid for it all with funds generated from diamond sales.’
‘Lucky for such a small place to have such a source of revenue,’ I said.
‘Sambalpore’s a lucky place,’ he replied. ‘Before diamonds it was opium. The kingdom used to do a roaring trade back in the day. The East India Company couldn’t get enough of the stuff for export to China. It’s past its peak but they still produce a bit, even today. They say it’s for use in medicinal preparations, but rumour has it that some of the officials turn a pretty penny supplying it to the black market.’
I felt a shiver pass through me. A bitter-sweet pang of expectation.
‘Anyway, the Maharaja’s got a decent track record,’ he continued, ‘especially for a man who’s always seemed more drawn to the lights of London and the fleshpots of Paris than he has to managing the affairs of state. The irony is that every time he wants to travel anywhere, he needs to apply to Delhi for his passport.’
‘Why?’ asked Surrender-not.
‘It’s the law,’ said Carmichael. ‘None of the princes can leave India without the permission of the Viceroy.’
‘It sounds like they’re under virtual house arrest,’ I said.
Carmichael smiled. ‘I suppose they are, in a manner of speaking.’
The car turned a corner. Ahead rose the Surya Mahal, the Palace of the Sun. It was three storeys tall, four if you counted the shaded gardens on the roof, and painted bright yellow. Built in the Mughal style, with an arched facade and balconied, latticed windows, it seemed concocted more out of light and air and flights of fancy than of brick and stone. It was imbued with the most delicate of architectural features that made our own colonial buildings look bloated and ponderous.
A guard with more important things on his mind waved us lazily through the gateway without bothering to check our identification. Not that that was particularly unusual. In India, being white and in a car was enough to get you into most places, but in light of recent events, I’d have expected security around the royal family to be stiffer.
The Austin stopped beside a set of stairs leading up to a doublestorey entrance arch. A footman with a face that seemed carved from mahogany appeared and opened the door. Carmichael acknowledged him with a nod and the man reciprocated,
displaying none of the usual bowing and scraping that one expects of native attendants receiving a sahib.
‘We have an audience with His Highness,’ said Carmichael.
‘Yes, Mr Carmichael,’ replied the man impassively. ‘This way please. You are expected.’
We followed him past two large wooden doors embellished with carvings of foliage and into an entrance hall dominated by a chandelier suspended from a ceiling several storeys above. There we were handed over to the care of another attendant who led the way down a marble corridor that smelled like a rose garden and stretched into the distance. At the end, we passed through another set of doors and were deposited into the care of a third official who continued the tour.
‘I didn’t expect a relay team would be required to take us to the Maharaja,’ I said.
‘Don’t worry,’ Carmichael replied, ‘you’ll be able to rest soon enough. His Highness likes to keep Indian time. We’re likely to be kept waiting a while before he sees us.’
The final attendant led us into the sort of room King Midas might have decorated if he’d had the money. French furniture sat under gilded mirrors and golden foliage. In the centre, a glass table rested on the backs of four silver elephants, and reflected the light from a Baccarat chandelier.
As we sat down, a set of doors at the far end opened, and out walked Fitzmaurice in the company of a finely dressed native. He seemed preoccupied and might have walked past without noticing us had Carmichael not called after him.
‘Sir Ernest; it’s good to see you, sir.’
The businessman brusquely returned the compliment, then made his excuses and followed the native out.
We went back to waiting. As the minutes passed, a series of unpleasant thoughts flashed through my head. I couldn’t shake the sight of Dawson on the platform at Howrah. Would the Maharaja suspect British involvement in the death of his son? And if so, how would he react to meeting the men who’d been at his son’s side when he’d been murdered?
My hands were shaking, maybe from a rush of adrenalin, or possibly from an absence of opium. The doors opened and an attendant in an emerald-green kurta walked over.
I braced myself.
‘His Highness will see you now.’
THIRTEEN
I was expecting a jewel-encrusted ruler reclined on silk cushions, perhaps fanned by flunkeys with oversized peacock feathers in a throne room the size of the Albert Hall. The reality was rather different. The room we entered was no larger than the average study, with bookcases arranged along one wall, French doors which opened onto landscaped gardens, and an unmistakable hint of mildew in the air.
At one end, behind a gilded desk, sat the Maharaja, grey-haired and crumpled in a Savile Row suit and a starched white shirt whose collar hung loosely round his thin neck like a noose waiting to be tightened. He appeared preoccupied with some papers. On the wall behind him hung a tapestry depicting some gruesome scene from what looked like Hindu mythology: a bejewelled prince locked in combat against a double-headed demon. Above it were two arched windows covered with latticework screens. To his right stood the Dewan and on the left, Colonel Arora and a turbaned attendant.
The Dewan whispered in his ear and the old man looked up. Day-old silver bristles pockmarked his chin and his red, raw eyes betrayed his grief. I imagine the death of a child will do that to a man, even one who’s sired over two hundred others.
‘Mr Carmichael,’ he said impassively.
‘Your Highness,’ replied the Resident, ‘may I introduce Captain Wyndham and Sergeant Banerjee of the Imperial Police Force. They are here to convey the Force’s condolences and pay their respects. I am given to understand that Sergeant Banerjee was a friend of the Yuvraj.’
There was a flicker in the old man’s eyes. ‘You knew Adhir?’ he asked Surrender-not.
‘Yes, Your Highness. We were at Harrow together, though he was closer in age to my brother.’
‘Sergeant Banerjee and Captain Wyndham are the officers who tracked down and apprehended your son’s assassin,’ interjected Colonel Arora.
The Maharaja stared hard. ‘I am in your debt, gentlemen,’ he said. ‘Do you have any idea what drove this man to commit such an act?’
‘I’m afraid not, Your Highness,’ I replied. ‘The man chose to take his own life rather than surrender to us. But there is evidence to suggest he may have been dispatched from Sambalpore.’
The old man sat up straighter.
Beside him, the Dewan stirred. ‘If I may, Your Highness—’ he started, but the Maharaja cut him off with a motion of his hand.
‘Dispatched? You suspect someone sent him to murder my son?’
‘The investigation is not yet complete,’ I clarified, ‘but we understand the prince had received notes warning him that his life was in danger. Those notes were left in his room here at the palace.’
The old man became suddenly animated. ‘You think the culprits are here? In Sambalpore?’
His exertions set off a sudden fit of coughing. As he doubled over, an attendant rushed to his aid, but the Maharaja waved him away.
‘Quite possibly.’
‘Can you find them?’
‘Your Highness!’ protested the Dewan. ‘The British have no jurisdiction here. I fear their involvement would set a worrying precedent. In any case, Major Bhardwaj has been working on a similar theory and has already arrested a suspect.’
Beside the Maharaja, Colonel Arora shifted awkwardly, as though blind-sided by the news. I caught his eye, and though it was only for an instant, I could tell what he was thinking.
‘If I may, Your Highness,’ he intervened, ‘I understand that Captain Wyndham is a former Scotland Yard detective, and that he is currently on leave from the IPF. Perhaps he would care to provide us with the benefit of his experience in a purely personal capacity? Possibly as an adviser to Major Bhardwaj and his officers?’
The Maharaja remained silent, but his emotions played out on his face. The thought of British intervention in the affairs of his kingdom was doubtless anathema to him, but this was the murder of his son, and that meant the normal rules didn’t apply. Then there were those two magic words — Scotland Yard. I never ceased to be amazed by the store people placed on that particular establishment, believing in the omniscience of its officers the way that tribal people do in witch doctors. Not that I was complaining.
He cleared his throat. ‘We deem it expedient to extend an invitation to the captain, and to his colleague, of course, to observe and, should he so wish, advise Major Bhardwaj’s investigation in a personal capacity. We would, of course, consider it a great service to the kingdom and would provide whatever comforts the captain and the sergeant would require during their stay.’
‘I’d like permission to interview individuals, Your Highness,’ I said. ‘In conjunction with your own officers, of course.’
Something caught my eye. A glint of reflected light coming from the screened window above the tapestry. It shimmered for a second, then disappeared.
The Dewan vehemently shook his head. ‘That would be completely inappro—’
But the Maharaja cut him off. ‘You shall have a free hand, Captain, including the authority to interrogate whomsoever you wish.’
‘In which case, the sergeant and I would be most honoured to assist in any way we can, Your Highness.’
He smiled thinly through grey lips. ‘Then it is settled. Colonel Arora will see to your accommodation and act as your liaison with the relevant officials. I trust, Captain, that you will be able to get to the bottom of this quickly. Time is short. Often shorter than we expect.’
FOURTEEN
‘Well, that went rather well,’ said Banerjee as we followed Colonel Arora back towards the antechamber.
‘Yes, I thought so too,’ replied the ADC. ‘What say you, Mr Carmichael?’
The Resident’s face, however, appeared to register several conflicting emotions at once. He exchanged glances with the colonel.
‘Captain, may
I have a word in private?’ Then, turning to the ADC, ‘A room please, Colonel,’ he said, with the authority of the Foreign Office in his voice.
Arora nodded, then opened the door to the antechamber. I followed Carmichael in.
‘Close the door, please,’ he said, his back to me. For a moment, he stood, drumming his fingers on a side table. Then he turned around. He seemed to have aged ten years.
‘I must say, Captain,’ he began, ‘this is most peculiar. First your unannounced arrival and now this.’
‘Is there something you wish to tell me, Mr Carmichael?’ I asked.
He hesitated for a moment.
‘I had hoped to avoid it, but given the circumstances . . .’ He fished a pressed handkerchief from his pocket and dapped at his forehead. ‘I feel I ought to give you the lie of the land, so to speak.
The royal court is a dangerous place, Wyndham. The politics are positively Byzantine. Loyalties can shift tremendously quickly. Now with the Yuvraj’s assassination, I fear the game may become even more cut-throat.’
‘You make them sound like a band of pirates,’ I laughed, ‘rather than the rulers of one of our trusted Indian allies.’
There came a noise from somewhere behind the wall, immediately drawing Carmichael’s gaze. The colour drained from his face.
‘Listen to me, Captain,’ he said, his voice dropping to a whisper. ‘The Yuvraj isn’t the first member of the family to have met with an untimely death. You should be careful who you trust.’
With that, he walked over to the door, opened it and beckoned to Banerjee and Arora.
‘Well, if you’ll excuse me, gentlemen,’ he said, ‘I must be getting back. I should wire Calcutta and inform them of developments.’ He turned to the ADC. ‘I trust you will see to it, Colonel, that the captain and the sergeant make it back to the residency this evening. My wife is keen to meet our friends from Calcutta.’
‘You may rest assured, Mr Carmichael,’ said Arora, ‘I shall ensure that Captain Wyndham and Sergeant Banerjee are returned to you by six o’clock.’
A Necessary Evil Page 9
