‘And you said no?’
She turned to face me. ‘I had no intention of becoming part of that family. I said no, and then I tweaked his tail. I reminded him of the curse that afflicts the first wives of the sons of the Sai family.’
‘How did he react?’
‘He certainly wasn’t delighted. At first I think he was somewhat bemused. He seemed to treat it as something of a game – the thrill of the chase, as you English say. But when he realised I was not about to change my mind, his bemusement turned to anger. He is, after all, a man who is used to getting what he wants.’
‘What did he do?’ I asked.
She glanced nervously at Major Bhardwaj. ‘First came the threats. Then came the assassination of his brother and suddenly I ended up in here.’
‘You think Prince Punit is responsible for your incarceration?’ growled Major Bhardwaj. ‘The order to arrest you came with the Maharaja’s personal seal affixed.’ He turned to me. ‘This is ridiculous, Captain. I’m minded to put an end to this farce.’
‘Even if Punit wasn’t responsible for my arrest,’ replied Miss Bidika, ‘he knows that I’m here, and he knows that I’m innocent. Do you not think he could release me with a snap of his fingers? But it suits his purpose to keep me here.’
‘Why?’ I asked. ‘What does he stand to gain by it?’
‘He wishes to bend me to his will. Maybe he thinks I shall repent my earlier actions and fall at his feet begging for forgiveness and freedom? But what would that freedom cost?’ She held me with a stare. ‘Do not underestimate him, Captain Wyndham. He may project the aura of an amiable bulfoon but he is in actuality a very smart man.’
‘Smart enough to have engineered the murder of his own brother?’
‘That’s enough, Wyndham,’ said the major angrily.
He opened the door and shouted for the guard. I heard Bidika’s voice behind me as we were frogmarched out of the room. ‘Rest assured he’s smart enough, Captain Wyndham. I wouldn’t have expected him to do it, but then I wouldn’t have expected to be arrested for the crime.’
Colonel Arora was waiting for us back at the Rose Building.
‘Where have you been?’ he asked anxiously, checking his watch. ‘We must hurry, or else we shall not reach Ushakothi in time.’
‘Ushakothi?’ asked Surrender-not.
‘The forest where the tiger shikar will take place. It’s twenty-five miles from here – a two-hour drive.’
‘You’d better send someone to fetch Miss Grant,’ I said. ‘She planned to accompany us.’
‘No need,’ he replied. ‘She left with His Highness Prince Punit half an hour ago.’
Surrender-not read my expression. ‘It looks like we don’t have to waste any more time,’ he said hastily.
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Wonderful.’
THIRTY-THREE
Ushakothi was a nowhere in the middle of nothingness. A forest wilderness at the end of a two-hour journey across a purgatory of stunted scrub and blackened trees caked in dust.
The Cadillac 55 had its roof down, with Surrender-not and I seated in the rear, drinking in a blessedly cooling breeze. Up front sat Arora and a chauffeur who seemed either mute or indifferent. The motion and the monotony lulled me into reminiscence.
I thought back to the war. The Yanks, when they’d finally shown up, used the 55 as staff cars for their top brass, and you saw quite a few them on the streets of Paris in T7. There were a damn sight fewer of them on the mud-bog lanes near the Front. Not that our own staff cars were any less rare.
My reverie was broken by the colonel. ‘The best time for hunting is the early morning,’ he said, ‘before it gets too hot. But His Highness prefers the late afternoon. It is not quite as cool, but it’s a better fit in terms of his waking hours.’
The car eventually turned off the dirt road, passing between age-old rusted gates set in a high mud-brick wall, and onto a track that meandered for miles through a forest of desiccated trees until it stopped abruptly at a clearing. The chauffeur pulled up in front of two white tents, each the size of a wedding marquee, and killed the engine. The silence of the forest enveloped us, perforated only by the crickets and the ticking of the resting motor. The grey sky was low and constricting, as though the gods had placed a lid over the clearing.
We got down and stretched, then followed Arora towards one of the tents. As outdoor accommodation went it was not too shabby: I’d been in brick buildings that were less solid. Within its curtained walls the forest outside was suddenly a memory, banished by Persian rugs, French furniture and a dozen hampers from Harrods and Fortnum’s.
Annie, in jodhpurs and hunting jacket, was seated in a wicker chair, sipping from a flute of pink champagne and reading a copy of Tatler. Next to her sat Emily Carmichael, a jade-green silk scarf tied loosely around her neck. The prince sat opposite, dressed in plus fours and a tweed jacket probably more suited to Orkney than Orissa.
Off to one side, Fitzmaurice, a stub of a cigar in his hand, stood in muttered conversation with Carmichael and Davé. The latter hadn’t dressed for the hunt and had chosen London pinstripes and Oxford brogues that wouldn’t have looked amiss in Carmichael’s wardrobe.
‘You made it then!’ exclaimed the prince, clearly relieved that he could now start hunting. ‘Champagne for the gallant captain and the sergeant,’ he shouted, rising from his chair.
I took two glasses from the tray that appeared and handed one to Surrender-not. As I sipped, I got the feeling I was being watched. I turned in time to see Fitzmaurice drop his gaze and take a vigorous puff of his cigar. He looked like a man trying to steady his nerves. I decided it was time to have a talk with the fellow. But before I could think of a way to get him alone, he extricated himself from the others and began to walk over.
He seemed shrunken somehow, his natural superiority chastened, replaced by something else. Surrender-not noticed it too.
‘It seems Sir Ernest may have something on his mind,’ he whispered. He gestured to the hampers. ‘If you don’t mind, sir, I’ll go and help myself to a sandwich.’
It’s a fact of nature that an Englishman abhors sharing his intimate thoughts. It’s why we accepted the Reformation so readily: we find it difficult to confess, even to a priest. And if we are loath to unburden ourselves to a man of God, there isn’t a cat in hell’s chance of us unburdening ourselves in front of a native. It would be a sign of weakness.
‘Good idea,’ I said. ‘Just keep your eyes on us.’
The sergeant nodded an acknowledgement and wandered off just as Fitzmaurice arrived.
‘Captain Wyndham.’
I noticed the sweat glistening on his neck. His throat looked red raw.
‘I wondered if I might have a word.’
‘Shall we take a walk outside?’ I asked. ‘The air in here is rather close for comfort.’
I lifted the tarpaulin door and held it up for him to exit. We walked slowly away from the camp towards the tree-line, the detritus of the forest floor crackling under our feet. Fitzmaurice sniffed ponderously at the air.
‘Is something on your mind, Sir Ernest?’ I asked.
‘I think . . .’ He paused, as though summoning up the courage to continue. ‘I think that my life may be in danger.’
I tried not to betray my surprise.
‘What makes you think that?’ I asked, staring straight ahead.
The businessman took a shaky puff of his cigar. ‘There’s a man in Sambalpore, an Englishman, name of Golding . . .’
His voice trailed off, willing me to fill the void. But I wasn’t about to do that.
‘He seems to have disappeared.’
Behind us came a rustling. I looked back to see Surrender-not emerge from the tent, keeping an eye out as promised. What I hadn’t expected was to see the Dewan, Davé, already out of the tent, watching us too.
I decided it was best to ignore him and continue my little chat with Fitzmaurice.
‘I don’t understand,’ I said. ‘Is Goldi
ng a friend of yours?’
‘Of sorts.’ Fitzmaurice stopped at the edge of the clearing and stubbed his cigar out on the emaciated trunk of a neem tree, then dropped it on the ground. ‘He used to be an employee of Anglo-Indian Diamond. I was supposed to meet him yesterday but he failed to show up. I’ve tried locating him but no one seems to know where he is.’
I thought back to Golding’s diary. There’d been no mention of any meeting with Fitzmaurice. That meant that Golding had either forgotten to enter it, something I doubted, or purposely not made a note of it. Or, it meant that Fitzmaurice was lying.
‘And you think his disappearance puts your own life in danger?’
Fitzmaurice turned to look at me. What little colour there was had drained from his face.
‘Golding was intimately involved in a transaction which Anglo-Indian is negotiating with the royal family. He was preparing a report, the contents of which are critical to the deal. I’d been trying to persuade him to give me first sight of the document—’
‘And how were you doing that?’ I asked.
‘The specifics are irrelevant,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘What matters is that he’s disappeared. Certain people in Sambalpore would not be pleased to learn that Golding was speaking to me.’
‘You think they’d kill him for it?’
‘Him and me.’ He looked like he meant it.
‘They’d be willing to kill Englishmen for something so trivial?’
Fitzmaurice nodded. ‘These people aren’t like us, Captain. They’re rather keen on vengeance.’
That might have been true, but I wasn’t sure I quite believed him.
‘In that case,’ I said, ‘I’d have thought the last place you’d want to be was a tiger hunt. Loaded weapons and wild animals aren’t particularly conducive to a safe environment. Why aren’t you already on your way back to Calcutta?’
‘Trust me, I’ve thought of that. Had it not been for your presence here, and a direct request from Prince Punit that I attend, I’d happily have given it a miss. As it is, I’m leaving tonight.’
In the distance, Punit exited the tent. He called out to Fitzmaurice.
‘I say, Sir Ernest, best not to tarry. I’m sure you’re eager to crack on, no?’
‘Of course,’ called the old Englishman. ‘Such good sport.’
The prince clapped his hands and Fitzmaurice and I headed back towards the tents.
A bearer handed out the guns. Good ones, too. Made by Purdcy’s of Mayfair – gunmakers to the King, as well as to international aristocracy and any other rich bastard who felt a need to shoot things that didn’t shoot back.
Punit made a show of examining his, taking aim at some imaginary beast to the left of my head.
‘Ever hunted before, Captain?’ he asked.
‘I can’t say I have,’ I replied, ‘though I know my way around a gun.’
‘Excellent!’ He smiled, then turned to a uniformed bearer and uttered a command.
A bugle sounded and from the edge of the clearing, four elephants lumbered into view, each resplendent in a green and golden sheet and a silver howdah – a seating platform of velvet cushions. Beside each beast walked its mahout.
‘Now how shall we do this?’ queried the prince, ‘Two per elephant, I suppose. Miss Grant shall ride with me, Sir Ernest and Captain Wyndham, Mr and Mrs Carmichael, and finally Sergeant Banerjee and Colonel Arora.’
‘What about Mr Davé?’ I asked.
‘He’s not interested in hunting,’ said the prince blithely. ‘And he needs to get back to Sambalpore.’
If the prince considered it odd that the Dewan would make the two-hour trip into the middle of nowhere simply to head straight back, he didn’t show it. I didn’t have time to dwell on the matter, though. I wasn’t keen on the thought of Annie and Punit on the back of an elephant together. What was more, I had a reason to try to stop them. A good, professional reason – I wanted at last to get some answers out of Punit.
‘Your Highness,’ I said, ‘I was hoping I might accompany you. I’m informed that Your Highness is quite the hunter.’
The prince hesitated, torn between the appeal of imparting his wisdom to a sahib and that of being atop an elephant with Annie.
‘That sounds like a good idea,’ interjected Annie. ‘Sam tells me he’s a terrible shot. Maybe he could learn a thing or two from you?’
That settled it.
‘Very well, Captain,’ said Punit. ‘You shall ride with me, and I shall teach you Britishers how to hunt tiger. Miss Grant shall accompany Sir Ernest.’
People began making for their designated elephants. I caught Annie’s arm.
‘You seem to have a bit of sway with the prince,’ I whispered.
‘You’re not jealous, are you, Sam?’ She smiled. ‘You should be thanking me. He wouldn’t have agreed to your suggestion if I hadn’t intervened.’
Riding an elephant wasn’t exactly the most comfortable of experiences, even when ensconced in the luxury of a well-padded howdah. The platform jerked constantly from side to side as the animal put one foot in front of the other, and the whole thing felt like being adrift in a rowing boat when the wind got up.
Nevertheless, the journey through the forest was almost pleasant, punctuated by the sounds of the birds in the trees and the heavy rhythmic footsteps of the elephants.
Then came voices.
We emerged into another clearing, larger this time, where stood close to a hundred natives, thin dark men with bare legs and white shirts, their heads wrapped in cotton turbans against the heat. A few carried drums; most had sticks and makeshift weapons.
‘Chalo!’ shouted the prince, and a roar went up from the assembly. The drums began and the men set off into head-high grass. The elephants, though, didn’t follow.
‘We must let the beaters get ahead of us,’ said the prince. Tn your fox-hunting, you send your hounds to flush out your prey. Here we use men instead of dogs, but it’s the same thing.’
Maybe it was, but I’d never heard of a fox that could rip a hound to shreds.
‘Are the beaters ever mauled?’ I asked.
‘Sometimes,’ he replied. ‘Not often, though, and if it happens, their families are well looked after.’
That was reassuring.
‘I tried fox-hunting in England once,’ he continued, ‘but I didn’t much care for it.’ He made a face. ‘Riding around on a horse all day in the rain, chasing something resembling a large rat, and then watching as the dogs have all the fun. It was rather dull.’
‘Well, that’s England for you,’ I replied. And I could see his point. It was hard for anyone to appreciate the subtle pleasures of a wet weekend chasing a fox round some sodden fields in Leicestershire, much less a prince used to shooting tigers from the back of an elephant.
The shouts and drums grew fainter until, finally, the prince gave the order and we lurched off into the undergrowth.
‘Keep a lookout in the trees,’ urged the prince.
‘What for?’ I asked.
‘Panthers. They’re not averse to taking men from their howdahs.’
I heeded the advice and cocked my rifle.
When the drumbeats grew louder once more, we saw the beaters splayed out in a wide semicircle, heading back towards us, beating the grass and shouting. I suddenly realised what that meant. They’d cornered a tiger and were driving it to us. I watched as the ring of men grew tighter, leaving no escape for the animal, hidden in the undergrowth.
Then I saw it, a flash of gold and black among the tall yellow grass.
‘Here we go,’ said the prince, ordering the mahout to pursue.
We gave chase through the bush, until suddenly the tiger turned and stood snarling in front of us, its muscles quivering under its pelt. In my experience, no other creature bears comparison with a Royal Bengal tiger. It is grace, power and beauty made flesh.
Punit called over to Fitzmaurice. ‘Sir Ernest,’ he shouted, ‘may I offer you first shot?’
&n
bsp; Ever the gentleman, Fitzmaurice demurred. ‘Maybe Miss Grant would care to shoot first?’ he said.
I watched Annie raise her rifle, take aim, then fire.
The noise sent a flock of birds exploding from the trees. The tiger dived into the thicket.
‘Women!’ laughed the prince. ‘How did she miss from there?’
Fitzmaurice shouted something at the mahout and their elephant set off in pursuit. At the same time, the elephant of Colonel Arora and Surrender-not circled to one side, hoping to cut off the creature’s escape.
The beaters, too, circled round, forcing the beast back, and suddenly it was cornered once again. This time, Fitzmaurice took the shot. The tiger roared. Then came another shot, this time from the prince, then a third from Colonel Arora, all hitting their mark. But the animal refused to fall. It took several more shots before its legs buckled and it collapsed to the ground. Still it roared its defiance. Finally, Punit took aim at the creature’s head and fired one last time.
A gang of villagers set to work retrieving the beast. A native with a box camera began positioning his equipment, as Fitzmaurice harangued his mahout to let him down so that he could pose for a photograph with his prize.
‘That didn’t seem particularly sporting,’ I said, ‘what with the beaters and all. You might as well shoot fish in a barrel.’
‘It was for Fitzmaurice’s benefit,’ said the prince tersely. ‘That man couldn’t hit a moving target if his life depended on it. So we let him have a pop at some of the older, tired ones. We even have a special tape measure for him, so that whatever he shoots is recorded as being at least eight feet long. Me, though, I prefer a real hunt.’
‘Then call off the beaters, Your Highness,’ I said. ‘Let’s do it properly.’
He looked at me, then smiled. ‘I’d rather received the impression you didn’t approve of this sort of thing, Captain. But I see you’re a hunter after all.’ He reached for a silver hip flask, unscrewed the top and took a swig, then offered it to me.
‘Of sorts,’ I replied, taking a nip.
Punit shouted down to one of the beaters and soon the message was passed along – the prince wishes to hunt – and we were off, back into the tall, tinder-dry grass, this time without the shouts and drums.
A Necessary Evil Page 24
