Govind smiled. ‘Not extraordinary at all, sahib. Rather ordinary you will find for Rajputana. We build our gates to accommodate the elephants which pass through them and, of course, the elephants are surmounted by a howdah.’
‘Oh, yes, of course,’ said Joe, feeling foolish.
‘Guests frequently enquire about the emblem of the sun which you see alongside the gate,’ Govind prompted.
Joe’s eyes followed his gesture and took in a large golden smiling face which radiated good humour and the literal rays of a sun from what appeared to be a shuttered window let into the palace wall, many feet above the ground. A plaque of some sort?
Seeing his interest, Govind went on, ‘The Rajput race is descended from the sun. . to be precise, from Lava, the elder son of Rama. The people gather here in the courtyard each morning to see the rising sun reflect from the golden face you see above you. Then they know that all is well. The god is with them and remembers his offspring.’
‘And if, one day, the sun does not show his face?’ said Joe. ‘I mean, you do have a monsoon season, don’t you?’
He guessed from Govind’s slight smile that he was not the first to ask this question.
‘When the weather is inclement, sahib, and the sun is not visible, then the ruler himself opens the window and shows his own godlike features to the crowd. They are reassured that the sun in one form or another is always with his people. And now, sahib, if you will follow me. .?’
Joe followed Govind through a maze of courtyards and corridors, finally crossing a lush green lawn and standing to gaze, shrugging off his fatigue and heat-exhaustion, at the building adjoining the Old Palace. The New Palace, he presumed. New in Victorian times, perhaps. He looked with pleasure at the English country house now confronting him and wondered about the architect. Charles Voysey? Edwin Lutyens? No. He looked again, seeing now a distinctly Eastern element to the design which was a harmonious blend of Eastern and Western style, and a name came to mind. Sir Samuel Swinton Jacob. Surely his was the hand behind this formidable pile?
Govind had stopped, sensing his charge was lagging behind. With an apologetic smile, Joe waved him on and followed him through an imposing entrance and down a marble-floored corridor, along which, unaccountably, a cooler, if not cool, current of air flowed. They crossed an internal courtyard which Joe reasoned was part of the simple but cleverly designed and natural cooling system for the house. The courtyard was full of raucous peacocks and fluttering white doves, its grassed centre green and well watered. Surrounding shrubs echoed the mix of East and West, thoroughly English roses stoutly holding their own against extravagant bougainvillea, cascading in shades of purest white to deep purple. A drowning perfume, intensifying in the early evening air, enchanted Joe. He stopped again and asked what it was. Govind reached up and plucked a flower from a tall shrub and handed it to Joe. The small, bell-shaped flower was cream and white and looked as though it were carved out of wax.
‘Frangipani, sahib,’ said Govind. ‘Delightful, is it not? Though I find it becomes a little overpowering if it is allowed to grow too abundantly.’
Joe’s rooms were down a corridor off the courtyard. Govind pushed the door open and showed him inside. Joe took a moment to look about him. The Ritz? The Savoy? As good as either, he thought with satisfaction. An electric fan overhead seemed to be dealing effectively with the residue of the day’s heat, the bed, piled high with silken cushions, looked inviting, the furniture was the best that Waring and Gillow had to offer and his trunk was standing at the bottom of the bed. Magically, his travelling bag seemed to have made the trip in safety also.
‘My gun case?’ he asked, anxiously.
Govind hurried to reassure him. ‘It is already in the gun room, sahib, where it is being checked by our Master At Arms to ensure that your gun has been unaffected by the journey.’ He pointed to a bell pull and invited Joe to ring when he wanted anything. He led him through an archway to a further room which was laid out as a study with a fine writing desk, two chairs and a low table, illumination supplied by elegant electric lamps. A door off, Govind told him, led to the bathroom. ‘Your bath has been drawn, sahib, and awaits you. Please ring when you are ready to summon help with dressing.’
‘No need for that, thank you, Govind. I’m accustomed to dressing myself.’
‘Many military gentlemen are, I find, sahib.’ Smiling and salaaming, Govind left the room.
Joe helped himself to a large glass of mineral water from a silver tray on his bedside table, then he unlaced his boots and kicked them off. He took off his socks and put his feet with a groan of satisfaction on cool marble tiles. He sat down on the bed and gave an experimental bounce or two then, throwing off his jacket and shirt, stretched out and closed his eyes. Probably a foolish thing to do but it had been a long day. A few moments to calm his racing mind before he got into his bath?
A shiver in the air, the slightest sound of a stealthy movement and a sharp metallic click brought him back from the edge of sleep and alerted his swimming senses to the fact that he was not alone in the room. He opened his eyes and looked straight down the black barrel of his own pistol pointing steadily at the space between his eyes.
‘Well, aren’t you the careless one! If I had a gun like this I wouldn’t let it out of my sight!’ said an Indian voice speaking in cultured and fast English. The voice was male, young, unbroken. A child?
Breaking free from the hypnotic fascination of the barrel, Joe looked along it to the small brown hand holding it so unwaveringly steady. Beyond that, an impish face looked back at him with scorn. A boy of ten or eleven, Joe guessed, dressed in a white silk buttoned coat, white trousers and a blue and white striped silk turban.
‘And you’re supposed to be a policeman, they tell me!’
‘And what are you supposed to be?’ said Joe, annoyed. ‘A burglar? The palace dacoit? No, I know what you are — you’re one of those thieving monkeys that break into guests’ rooms and steal their hairbrushes! Well, you left the window open, monkey!’
Surprised, the boy looked sideways at the window and opened his mouth to make a rude reply, distraction enough for Joe to knock his hand away, grasp his wrist and with a quick heave, flip his slight frame over the bed, grabbing the gun from him as he rolled.
‘Get up, monkey, and sit down in that chair!’ Joe snapped. The boy picked himself up, straightened his turban and sat down, eyes fixed on the gun.
‘Never point a gun at someone unless you intend to kill him,’ said Joe, ‘even if, like this one, it is unloaded! And never pause to have a conversation with your victim. It shows you’re not serious. Anyone who needs to hold a gun to a feller’s head to make him listen is likely to bore his target to death rather than fill him full of lead.’
The boy swallowed, glared at Joe and said haughtily, ‘As you are speaking to me at some length, though I would hardly call it a conversation, I assume that you have not been sent to murder me?’
‘Sent to murder you?’ Joe was stunned. ‘Who are you? And, perhaps more important, just what do you take me for?’
‘My name is Bahadur Singh. I am the son of Maharaja Udai Singh. The third son,’ he said with a pride that could not be concealed even by his obvious terror. ‘Bishan is dead and now Prithvi is dead. I am the next son. I think you have been sent to kill me.’
‘Why on earth should you think that?’ said Joe, putting the gun down on a small table by the door.
‘I searched your luggage and found the gun hidden. Who but a hired assassin would hide his gun?’
‘Is it a custom of yours to go through guests’ things?’
‘Yes, of course,’ said the boy, puzzled. ‘How else can I decide who I am going to like? Shall I tell you,’ he said, relaxing now that the gun had been put out of reach, his tone changing to one of confidence, ‘what Sir Hector Munro has in his smallest black bag?’