‘Thank you for pointing that out, sir. I’ll leave my fingerprint kit and handcuffs at home. So, I’m being sent in in an advisory capacity only?’
‘Um. . not even that, I’m afraid.’ Sir George had looked uncomfortable.
‘Does the absolute ruler have such a thing as a police force of his own?’ Joe enquired mildly.
‘Yes. But don’t count on any assistance from them,’ said George. ‘They wouldn’t recognize themselves as “policemen”. They are the Royal Guard. Bodyguards, henchmen, knives for hire, assassins on request. In fact, Joe, I wouldn’t be at all surprised if your target is actually among their ranks. But I mustn’t say more. . it’s all speculation at best at this distance. That’s why you’re going with Edgar, my boy — to keep a watching brief and report back. No need to. . er. . go sleuthing about the place in a visible way, you understand. Could get you into a lot of trouble.’
Joe had been running his eye down the treaty document with a good deal of interest. ‘I say, sir,’ he said, frowning, ‘have you seen this at the end of the treaty? It says, “Done at Dihlee this sixth day of January, AD 1815.” Signed and sealed by Mr Charles Theophilus Metcalfe, Resident. And the treaty is between the Honourable English East India Company and the Raja Maun Singh of Ranipur. The East India Company? Long defunct! Does this piece of paper still have relevance? Is it still legal?’
‘Oh, yes. Look at Clause 1. Good opening, I think you’ll agree. “There shall be perpetual friendship and alliance between the Honourable East India Company and the Raja of Ranipur. The friends and enemies of one party shall be friends and enemies of both. The British Government engages to protect the principality and territory of Ranipur in perpetuity.” Well, there you have it. The government of the day took over the rights and the responsibilities of John Company on his dissolution. We, that is HM Gov., gave its word. And you don’t welch on a Rajput! We’ve protected them and they’ve done much for us over the years. Did Edgar tell you how the prince of Ranipur came by his nineteen gun salute and his title of Maharaja?’
Joe shook his head.
‘It was well earned and springs from their respect for the female sex. In the darkest days of the Sepoy Revolt when the British were being slaughtered by elements of the Indian army a small contingent of women and children were shipped off in boats down the river by their menfolk who were making a last rearguard stand against the native forces. A desperate measure and the pursuing rebels soon caught up with them, riding along the bank and howling with glee when they saw that the boats were awash and beginning to sink. What they hadn’t realized was that they’d strayed into the territory of the prince of Ranipur. He remembered the treaty his great grandfather had signed and set about upholding his part of the bargain. He sent a rescue party out to pull the women and children to safety on the southern bank and loosed his crack troops against the rebels on the northern bank. Routed them and held the British civilians in safety until they were picked up many weeks later by a recovered British force. A very grateful British force. He was given his increased gun salute and the plain Raja became Maharaja — great ruler. And they acquired a good story to tell, one of bravery, chivalry and Rajput honour. I think that’s why we get on so well with the Rajputs — we admire the same qualities.’
Joe had fought back the temptation to add, ‘And Machiavellian deviousness? How about that quality, George?’ He thought he knew the answer.
His eyes rested again on what he suspected was the Machiavelli of Ranipur. Zalim was eagerly inviting the company to step outside and enjoy the night air, now cooling, he promised, as it wafted upwards from the lake behind the palace. An entertainment had been laid on for them in the courtyard.
They followed him, brandy glasses in hand, along a short corridor and down a flight of steps, emerging into the dark blue velvet of an Indian night. Music and chatter, laughter and short bursts of song greeted them and, unexpectedly, a crowd of courtiers, twinkling in jewels and satins, standing around a marble-paved sunken courtyard some thirty yards across and surrounded by a colonnaded piazza. Somewhere a fountain splashed and gushed, throwing up a fine cooling spray. The air was heavy with the scent from the orangeries which lined the courtyard and from the more distant blossom trees surrounding the lake. With a gesture, the Dewan invited the dinner guests to join him, seated cross-legged on the carpets which had been spread over the marble slabs. He indicated that Joe should sit at his left hand in the centre of the group and, at his nod, the music began in earnest as a small group of musicians gathered at the far end of the colonnade began to play.
Joe detected the sound of the tabor and sarangi, a flute and a guitar whose exponent was so skilled he could have appeared with the Philharmonic. The sweet notes of the tappa filled the air, a measure of plaintive simplicity which put Joe in mind of his own native Scottish tunes. After the briefest of pauses, the music struck up again but louder, faster and more compelling.
Into the arena swirled a group of female dancers, the bells on their ankles sounding an insistent rhythm as they stamped their way forward and took up their places on the black and white squares of the courtyard. Against this sombre backdrop the bright reds, blues, purples and yellows of their ankle-length petticoats of heavy silk stood out, lit by countless flares and strings of lights hanging from the columns. Their hair, jet-black, was smoothed down in gleaming curtains on either side of their faces, the rims of their dark eyes lined with kohl.
Nautch girls, that was what he had heard them called, though Joe had not yet seen nautch dancing. Much enjoyed by the bachelors in the employ of the East India Company, these performances were discouraged by their, for the most part, married and prudish successors from Victorian England. And more fool them! Joe thought as he settled to enjoy the dance. Expressive eyes and flashing smiles enchanted him and, as they began to dance to an ever faster rhythm, he was lost in admiration for their lithe vitality. Of the dozen dancers one or two appeared to be the stars and they came forward to perform individually before the Dewan. One in particular attracted Joe’s admiration. A little taller than the others, she was outstandingly acrobatic in her dancing and drew applause from the crowd. With the composure of Ellen Terry taking a third curtain call, she began to repeat her routine and Joe was intrigued to notice that whenever she came out of a turn, it was his eye she caught. He thought he must have been mistaken but no, when she rejoined the rest of the company, she continued to watch him. The Dewan himself seemed to be conscious of this. He turned to Joe with a raised eyebrow and, leaning towards him, in an amused tone whispered, ‘Her name’s Padmini!’
He continued to chuckle good-naturedly to himself until the dancers, with a final athletic flourish, disappeared.
Glasses of pomegranate juice and iced tea were suddenly at their elbows while the musicians wound down, playing a soft native tune. Suddenly, the Dewan rose to his feet and the rest of the audience rose also, a general stirring of excitement beginning to run through the assembled courtiers.
‘At this point in the evening’s entertainment my ancestors would have regaled you with a gladiatorial combat,’ said the Dewan conversationally to Joe. ‘But no longer, though I have in mind a contest of sorts. We Rajputs enjoy a sporting exhibition as much as the British, you know. We are hoping our guests will participate.’
Joe was beginning to feel a ripple of anxiety run through him. He hadn’t quite liked the emphasis on the word ‘British’. Surely they weren’t expecting him to put on a show? Good Lord! — didn’t they go in for bare-knuckle boxing and panther wrestling? There were lengths he was not prepared to go to even for the honour of the Empire. He waited in trepidation for the Dewan’s next announcement.