Bahadur looked at his wristwatch. Joe blinked in admiration. It was a diamond-encrusted Cartier watch and though Joe would never have remarked on another man’s possessions, the look of boyish pride as Bahadur consulted it prompted him to make the anticipated admiring comment. Bahadur smiled in glee, his first genuine smile, and instantly he slipped the watch off his wrist and handed it to Joe. ‘I’m so glad you like it. It was given to me by a jewel salesman from London who visited last year. My father was much impressed by the man’s generosity to his son and placed a large order with him. Now I give it to you. Please take it.’
Joe’s embarrassed protests were brushed aside. ‘But this is our custom,’ the boy said firmly. ‘If a guest admires any of our possessions, we are proud to give them to him. You are a warrior like the Rajputs, I see this, so I know you must understand. Would you not want to give me something of yours if I truly admired it?’
‘Well, yes, of course,’ said Joe automatically, taken in by the boy’s expression of earnest innocence and honour.
Too late he realized that he had been trapped. Bahadur placed the watch ceremoniously in the centre of the dressing table, turned to Joe and said, ‘Well now, I really must be going. I’ll return tomorrow and we’ll continue our conversation, sir.’
Joe held his breath as the boy made his way to the door. Was he going to get away with it? Reaching the table by the door, Bahadur caught sight of the Browning M and raised his hands in an actor’s gesture of surprise and recognition. He picked it up. It slid into his grasp with familiar ease, the scale appropriate to his small hand. ‘Keep this safe, Mr Sandilands. I would be most distressed if you were to lose it because it is the most beautiful, the most comforting gun I have ever handled. Just to have such a gun as this — though unloaded, as you say — tucked into my belt, would make me feel more secure.’
He sighed.
Joe knew he’d been tricked but he recognized that the crushing fear the boy was living under was genuine, the threat real, his plea heartfelt.
He took a deep breath. He heard his own voice saying with what he thought might just be the formality and pride appropriate to a Rajput warrior, ‘I would be honoured, Bahadur, if you would keep the gun.’
They smiled at each other in complete understanding and Bahadur and his Browning disappeared as suddenly as they had arrived.
Soaking in his bath, Joe was torn between rage and amusement. He was angry to have lost his gun though luckily he had had the forethought to pack his old service revolver along with ammunition. Ammunition! A sudden cold thought sent him dripping, naked, from the bath to his trunk. He tried to recollect the weight of the little gun in his hand when he had wrested it from Bahadur and could not. Cursing his carelessness, he dug around and, with a sigh of relief, found the spare clips for the Browning still where he’d placed them, wrapped up in a waistcoat.
He counted them. There was one missing.
Chapter Seven
Joe groaned. A nervous twelve-year-old was loose about the palace armed with the police commander’s own gun. Not unloaded as he had thought but with eight lethal bullets up the spout. Joe imagined Sir George’s comments if he ever found out. Suppose the lad went straight back to the zenana with his new toy to exact retribution from the maharanees for the attempts on his mother’s life? Like a fox in a hen-coop he’d be able to kill at will.
Joe tried to put these horrifying but fanciful ideas out of his mind. There had been something about the boy that had earned his confidence. He didn’t doubt his courage and he’d been impressed by his cleverness and quick thinking. Perhaps Bahadur had presented him with a true bill — he genuinely wanted to keep the gun as personal protection. Well, so be it. He reasoned that Bahadur could trust no one; he could be in genuine danger of death from an unknown quarter and, ultimately, his only defence might well be the Browning. And then, though heaven forbid, he’d be damned glad he’d given it to him. He told himself to relax and finish dressing. He had left himself only an hour in which to complete his report for Claude.
Feeling rather foolish sitting at his desk in evening gear and the promised white tie, all pressed at a moment’s notice by the palace staff, Joe found supplies of writing paper and an excellent fountain pen, already loaded with black ink, and set to work. The words flowed easily, no detail was missed and he was happy with his account. He folded it in two, slipped it into his pocket and, after a guilty look at the Cartier watch, he tucked that into his other pocket, not knowing what else to do with it and acknowledging that the security of his room was nonexistent. He pulled the bell and waited for his escort to the dining room. He had left a perfect ten minutes to spare.
While he waited he went to stand in front of the cheval glass to make a last check on his appearance. The evening suit, tailored for him in Calcutta, fitted well, the narrow, waist-long jacket flattered his slim figure and long legs. His spanking white shirt and tie emphasized a face darkened by almost a year of living an outdoor life in the sun. ‘More of this and I’ll be able to pass for a native,’ he thought, tugging at his tie. ‘But not, perhaps, with these eyes.’ Light grey was not an Indian colour. ‘Huh! Fighting elephant, indeed!’
He was confused to find himself wondering briefly what Madeleine would make of him with all the layers of dust and perspiration washed away and reminded himself guiltily that she would, of course, not be expected in any society to come down to dinner mere hours after her husband’s death.
The reassuring figure of Govind appeared in the mirror behind him. ‘The waistcoat, Govind,’ said Joe. ‘Not too fancy, I hope? What do you think?’
Govind considered for a moment. ‘Everything is perfect, sahib. Exactly what is required. Handkerchief perhaps?’
They set off, retracing their earlier steps back to the Old Palace. ‘The reception will be in the durbar room tonight,’ said Govind. His voice took on a hushed and serious tone. ‘The palace — the state — is in mourning for the young prince and this will continue for twelve days. You arrive at an unfortunate time, sahib.’
‘You must tell me how I may best avoid getting in the way,’ said Joe with concern. ‘Mark my card, Govind, and don’t let me crash about insensitively annoying people.’
‘I think the sahib has the sensitivity of an elephant.’ Govind smiled and gently nodded.
For a moment Joe was startled then he remembered that for these warriors who lived, worked and sometimes fought alongside elephants the animal was revered for its intelligence and discretion. He returned the nod, recognizing the compliment.
‘The funeral ceremony will take place tomorrow afternoon at the samshan — the cremation ground — by the river. You and your fellow guests will not be involved. The palace has many distractions to put before you while we are occupied with our religious rites.’
‘I see,’ said Joe doubtfully. A situation already socially delicate now promised to be impossible. ‘Are there areas of the palace and town I should perhaps avoid?’
‘Yes, sahib. The mourning rituals will be performed in the women’s quarters where the ruler has gone to join the maharanee, the mother of his son. The zenana will be the scene of much wailing and crying out. The women will be breaking their bangles in grief over the body of the Yuvaraj and garlanding him with flowers. This afternoon’s events are most distressing but His Highness will be present to greet you and share a drink, although he is very tired and very busy as you can imagine he would be and he will not stay long. You will be able to become acquainted with the other guests, however, and enjoy an excellent meal. His Highness is concerned that you should all have a pleasant and most sociable evening.’