We were soon speeding through the palace gates, making for the bridge across the Mahanadi. The road was blessedly quiet. Other than a few sari-clad washerwomen returning from the river, the route was the preserve of cows and the occasional bullock cart. I couldn’t help feeling that whoever Golding was supposed to meet, they were somehow connected to what he’d wanted to tell me. Would his contact show? Or would they know of his disappearance and decide to hightail it too? A little part of me even held out the faint hope that Golding might turn up himself; that he’d avoided his abductors and lain low in order to have this meeting. The adrenalin coursed as I accelerated along the dusty road, hoping to reach the temple before six thirty.
The light had died by the time we arrived and I pulled the car off the road a few hundred yards from the compound and parked behind a grove of trees. From there we quietly covered the distance to the temple gates on foot. I sent Surrender-not to scour the perimeter while I took up station under the canopy of a sprawling banyan tree.
The scene seemed tranquil enough. Several old men and women sat cross-legged and quiet outside the entrance. None of them looked like the sort whom Golding would have a meeting with.
Surrender-not, fresh from his circumnavigation of the compound walls, came over.
‘Anything to report?’
‘Nothing, sir. There are no other entrances.’
It meant we would only need to maintain watch on one location.
‘Good,’ I said. ‘In that case, all we have to do is stay here and see who shows up.’
As we waited, others joined the small group at the entrance and within twenty minutes the crowd had swelled to almost fifty people.
Then, on the stroke of seven, a bell sounded. The gates opened and out walked several saffron-clad priests who proceeded to distribute alms. Shortly, the crowd began to disperse and the priests returned to the compound.
‘It doesn’t look like anyone’s coming,’ I said.
‘Should we wait?’ asked Surrender-not.
I checked my watch. It looked like our dash to the temple had been a wild-goose chase. Whoever Golding was supposed to meet seemed to know he’d disappeared. There was little point in hanging around. Besides, Colonel Arora would be expecting us.
‘We don’t have time,’ I said. ‘Let’s go.’
TWENTY-SIX
I gripped the steering wheel tightly as we drove back towards town. It had been a long shot, admittedly, but in my gut I had expected something to happen at the temple.
Beside me, Surrender-not was silent and sullen. His expression irked me more than it should have. I put that down to frustration and the dull ache inside my skull.
Arora was still in his office at the Rose Building.
‘Anything?’ he asked.
I kept my responses vague, but in any case he seemed too anxious that we not be late for the Yuvraj’s wake to pick up on any deficiency in my answers.
‘We should leave for the guest lodge,’ he said. ‘No doubt you will wish to change for dinner.’
The guest lodge was a handsome villa nestling just out of sight of the main palace. We were left in the care of a liveried manservant who led us inside and up a flight of stairs, explaining the history of the building as he went. I paid him scant attention. The only history I was interested in was what had happened to my suitcase during the previous twelve hours.
‘Your room, sir.’
I thanked him as perfunctorily as possible without seeming rude, entered and locked the door behind me. The room was on the tasteful side of opulent, furnished with the obligatory suite of French furniture and a four-poster bed as big as a tennis court. I ignored it all and headed straight for the large teak wardrobe, almost tripping on the tiger-skin rug on the floor. The thing had a mouth the size of my head. I pulled the handle of the wardrobe and flung open the door.
My bowels turned to ice.
My clothes lay neatly folded on a shelf. There was no sign of the suitcase. Turning, I frantically scanned the room, finally spotting it on a foldable table in one corner.
I all but ran over and pressed the buttons releasing the clasps. They snapped back, and with a degree of trepidation I hadn’t felt since the war, lifted the lid.
I breathed a sigh of relief.
The opium kit was still in there, and it was still locked. I fished out the key from a small silk pocket in the suitcase’s lining and opened it. All the pieces were snuggly in place. My secret was still safe. Nevertheless, I cursed myself for the idiocy I’d displayed in deciding to bring it to Sambalpore in the first place.
After taking a shower, I was surprised to discover a starched white shirt and black tuxedo and tie hanging beside my own shirts in the wardrobe. As I dressed, I tried to make sense of what I’d learned.
Adhir was turning out to be a more complicated man than I had perhaps expected. Katherine Pemberley had only corroborated what Shreya Bidika had told me the day before. Adhir wasn’t just some dilettante. He was loved by his people, and, it seemed, also by an Englishwoman. That last thought was bitter. It triggered something in me, something that I instinctively recoiled from.
I forced myself to focus. Plenty of white men had native mistresses; hell, the woman I’d been keen on for the last twelve months was hardly lily-white, so why should it be different when an Indian man fell in love with a white woman? But it was different. It was something that every Englishman knew – or rather felt – because it was never taught to you explicitly. You just absorbed it, along with the rest of the rubbish about the superiority of the white man. And while I could discount most of that nonsense, it seemed that love between an Indian and an Englishwoman was something I couldn’t quite accept.
And then it struck me. I realised that what I found truly distasteful was not that an Indian should be attracted to a white woman -that, though undesirable, was at least understandable – but the idea that she might return his love. It wasn’t, I found, something I wished to dwell on, though whether that was from an aversion towards Miss Pemberley’s feelings or my own, I couldn’t say.
Instead, I turned my energies to more productive ends. The number of potential suspects was growing and now included, as well as Punit, the dead prince’s wife, the British security forces, and Anglo-Indian Diamond. The only person I felt I could discount was the woman whom the authorities had actually arrested for the crime.
Then there was the pressing issue of the missing accountant. Was there a link between Adhir’s assassination and the disappearance of Mr Golding?
My train of thought was interrupted by a knock at the door.
‘Captain Wyndham, sahib?’ came a voice from the hall outside. ‘Colonel Arora is waiting for you.’
I thanked the voice, finished tying the bow tie and slipped on the tuxedo jacket. It was a pretty decent fit, almost as good as the one hanging in my almirah back in Calcutta. I switched off the ceiling fan and made my way out of the room.
We pulled up outside the entrance to the Surya Mahal. Several other motor cars were parked already, the palace lights reflecting off their polished chrome and paintwork.
Arora led the way, past a line of guards and eventually to a set of doors, which, at a word from the colonel, were flung open to reveal a smoke-filled sitting room, large enough to swing the proverbial elephant. To one side stood Sir Ernest Fitzmaurice, holding forth to Carmichael with a whisky in one hand and a cigar in the other. The Resident appeared to be agreeing wholeheartedly with him; indeed, Carmichael seemed the type to agree wholeheartedly with most things the businessman might say.
On a sofa in the centre of the room sat Mrs Carmichael and an attractive young Indian woman in a green sari. The Resident’s wife was cooing over the woman’s sapphire-studded necklace, and her companion seemed somewhat embarrassed by the attention.
In a far corner, removed from the other guests, the Dewan and Major Bhardwaj stood huddled, their conversation kept to a whisper. The Dewan was dressed in a cream, knee-length kurta, while the major wore hi
s militia uniform, his chest plastered with enough medals to make you think he might have robbed the royal mint.
‘Who’s that?’ I asked, gesturing towards the young Indian woman, as an attendant came over with a bevy of champagne flutes on a silver tray.
‘That, my dear fellow,’ replied Colonel Arora, ‘is the Maharani Devika, His Highness the Maharaja’s third wife.’
That came as a surprise, not just because she looked young enough to be the king’s granddaughter, but more particularly because I’d assumed the royal women weren’t at liberty to wander around attending palace functions. I knew they took trips out in the purdah car, but I’d assumed it was only to places where there were no men present.
‘She’s not restricted to the zenana?’ I asked.
The colonel shot me a look that suggested the question was either ridiculous or insulting.
‘Captain,’ he sighed, ‘the zenana is not a prison. Just because men are not allowed inside, it does not therefore follow that the women are not allowed out. Its occupants are free to come and go as they please.’
‘Then why can’t I interview Princess Gitanjali?’ I asked.
The young maharani glanced over. She really was very beautiful.
The colonel took a sip of champagne, then read the look of confusion on my face.
‘We’ve been through this, Captain. There are protocols to consider.’
Before I could protest further, the doors opened and this time, Annie walked in, dressed in a black silk sari, its border embroidered with golden flowers. Her dark hair was tied back, and at her neck was the diamond-studded choker she’d worn in Calcutta. It was the first time I’d seen her in native dress and she glided into the room like some goddess made flesh.
Colonel Arora’s face lit up.
‘Miss Grant,’ he said, ‘it is a pleasure to see you again.’
Annie returned his smile and walked over. Arora took her hand and kissed it.
‘And may I say how radiant you look tonight.’
It seemed he and Annie were already acquainted. It stood to reason, I supposed. She was a friend of Adhir’s and Arora was the dead prince’s ADC. Still, it irritated me slightly.
Arora turned to me, ‘May I introduce Captain Wyndham and Sergeant Banerjee of the Calcutta Police.’
‘Oh, these gentlemen and I are old friends,’ she replied, extending her hand for me to kiss. I was happy to oblige.
‘Really?’ exclaimed Arora.
‘It’s a small world,’ I said.
‘That it is,’ added Annie. She had a mischievous look in her eye. ‘In fact, we all have a mutual acquaintance. The industrialist, James Buchan,’ she explained. ‘It was at one of his receptions in Calcutta that I was first introduced to Adhir and Colonel Arora.’ She turned to the colonel. ‘You must forgive Captain Wyndham, Colonel,’ she said. ‘He’s not a great fan of Mr Buchan. But then the captain tends to view most men with at least a degree of suspicion.’
The colonel looked to me, then back to Annie, and seemed unsure of how to respond. ‘Well, I’m sure the captain agrees with me that you look most elegant tonight,’ he said finally.
‘I’ll admit she scrubs up rather well,’ I replied.
‘Why, thank you, Captain,’ said Annie with a smile. ‘And may I return the compliment. It’s been so long since I’ve seen you in a tuxedo I was beginning to fear you’d forgotten how to tie a bow tie.’
I felt my hand reach for the bow tie at my throat. She wasn’t far wrong.
Sensing my discomfort, Arora attempted to diffuse the tension.
‘Come, Miss Grant,’ he said, taking her arm. ‘Let me introduce you to some of the other ladies.’
I took a sip of champagne and looked on as he led her over to Mrs Carmichael and the Maharani Devika.
I heard Surrender-not sigh beside me.
‘What’s wrong, Sergeant?’ I asked.
‘Nothing, sir.’
‘Spit it out,’ I said. ‘I’ll be damned if on top of everything I’m going to have to worry about what’s upsetting you all evening.’
‘I was just thinking that Colonel Arora seemed quite taken with Miss Grant, sir.’
Absolute nonsense,’ I said, pointing him in the direction of the bar. ‘I honestly have no idea where you pick up such ridiculous notions. Let’s get a proper drink before your imagination gets any more carried away.’
Sir Ernest Fitzmaurice broke off from his conversation with Carmichael and smiled as we walked over. Carmichael, however, seemed less happy to see us.
‘Two double whiskies,’ I said to the barman, before turning my attention to the Englishmen.
‘Any news from Delhi, Mr Carmichael?’ I asked innocently.
‘The telegraph lines are down.’ He frowned. Apparently, the monsoon’s washed away the lines to the north of Sambalpore. There’s no way of getting a message out.’
‘That’s a pity,’ I said, picking up one of the crystal tumblers that the barman had placed on the bar. ‘Have you tried the telephone?’
‘Telephone lines are down too.’
‘Well, in that case, I suppose I should stay on until communications are restored. It wouldn’t do to insult the Maharaja by upping sticks and leaving, especially after his gracious invitation to stay.’
Carmichael downed his gin.
‘And you, Sir Ernest?’ I asked. Are you planning on staying long?’
The businessman cast a sour look in the direction of the Dewan and Major Bhardwaj.
‘I’ll be glad to get back to Calcutta as soon as possible,’ he replied. Assuming the city hasn’t been washed away. I’ve heard the rains are coming down something fierce back there.’
‘You don’t like Sambalpore?’ I asked.
He took a pull on his cigar. ‘It’s a bit too far from civilisation for my liking.’
I surveyed the room and its well-heeled guests drinking cocktails and champagne.
‘What did you make of the funeral today?’ I asked.
‘Quite a spectacle,’ he snorted, ‘and rather melodramatic for my tastes. I mean, crying elephants, for Christ’s sake.’
‘Did you know Prince Adhir well?’
He took a sip of whisky. ‘Not well. We had business dealings, but he wasn’t really my cup of tea.’
‘That’s interesting,’ I said. ‘From what I’d heard, he seems to have been quite the man of vision. Brilliant even. People have told me that he would have made an excellent ruler.’
‘Yes, well,’ interjected Carmichael. ‘He was definitely intelligent. Maybe a bit too intelligent.’
‘A rather slippery fellow.’ Fitzmaurice nodded. ‘Difficult to pin down in negotiations.’
‘And you think it will be easier to deal with his brother?’
‘Let’s hope so.’ He smiled, raising his glass.
Before I had a chance to press him further, the door opened and in strode Prince Punit. All eyes turned towards him while his eyes turned towards the ladies. He was dressed in a tuxedo that had been tailored in a style sharp enough to slice your hand off. He walked into the centre of the room, his patent leather shoes reflecting light like a mirror, and gave a cursory nod to Carmichael before coming over to Fitzmaurice, who transferred his drink to join the cigar in his left hand, then proffered the right one to the prince.
‘My dear Sir Ernest,’ said Punit, ignoring the outstretched hand, ‘I hope you’re being well looked after?’ The man might have been educated in India but his accent was as English as his deceased brother’s.
‘Of course, Your Highness,’ replied Fitzmaurice, managing, in one fluid gesture, to turn the rejected handshake into the first flourish of a bow. ‘Your father’s hospitality is, as ever, impeccable.’
‘Wait till you try the food!’ replied the prince. ‘We’ve a new chef in our employ since your last visit: a Frenchman, no less. He was head chef for the Romanovs until the damn Bolshies shot them. Still, it worked out nicely for us.’ He grinned. ‘We’re fortunate to have obtained his ser
vices. They say both the George Cinque Hotel and the King of Sweden wanted him, but naturally our budget stretched further than theirs.’
The prince’s eyes strayed back towards the ladies gathered around the sofa.
‘Will His Highness the Maharaja be joining us?’ asked Carmichael.
‘What? Oh, I expect so.’ The prince gestured towards the young Maharani. ‘Otherwise I doubt Devika would be here.’ He turned his attention to Surrender-not and me. ‘You must be Messrs Wyndham and Banerjee,’ he said.
‘Your Highness,’ I said.
‘I understand you’ve both done sterling work tracking down my brother’s killer,’ he said. ‘My family is in your debt, gentlemen.’
I thanked him for that. ‘Is there a time when we could talk to you about your brother?’ I asked.
‘Talk?’ he asked. ‘I’m afraid it’ll have to wait a few days. I’ve a hunt planned for Sir Ernest for tomorrow. It’s already been cut short by this terrible business and I’m determined he gets to shoot something.’
‘A pity,’ I said. ‘His Highness your father was most keen that we speak to you.’ It was a lie, but I felt it to be in a good cause.
‘We’ll try to fit something in later this week. Now, if you’ll excuse me, gentlemen,’ he said, gesturing towards the ladies, ‘I really should tend to our other guests.’
I watched as the prince sauntered over to them. Carmichael turned to Sir Ernest. ‘You think you can do business with him?’
Sir Ernest puffed on his cigar. ’Oh, I’m sure of it,’ he said, a faint smile forming at the corners of his mouth.
The prince exchanged a few words with the Maharani Devika, who kept her replies short, never looking directly at him.
Next, Punit gave Mrs Carmichael significantly more attention than he had her husband, and she burst into sudden laughter. If she hoped that was a prelude to a longer conversation, she was to be disappointed: immediately, the prince turned his gaze on Annie. His actions became just that bit more animated, as men’s often do in the presence of beautiful women, and I realised that, from the moment he’d entered the room, it was she who’d captured his attention. It’s not as though I hadn’t seen it happen before; it’s just that it had never previously been a prince that she’d captivated, at least not while I’d been watching. She smiled as he took her hand and kissed it, and I felt something turn over in the pit of my stomach. The prince gave a bow, and for a moment I was sure Annie glanced in my direction. Then she was smiling and talking to Punit once again.
A Necessary Evil Page 18
