‘So, the stable money’s on son number three. But you haven’t told me, George, what exactly happened to put number one out of the running permanently?’
George hesitated and took a large gulp of his whisky before replying. ‘You have to understand, Joe, that this is quite an, er, alien culture we’re dealing with here. Until very recently these chaps were — and I have to say still largely are — Rajput warriors. Very special breed. Hindu by religion with some Moslem attributes. Many of these Rajput tribes fought off the Moghul invaders with suicidal bravery. Some, like Udai’s mob, even managed to hang on to their independence. Tough nuts to crack! They’re very fierce, very proud, quarrelsome and quite intractable. Imagine a Scottish chieftain, if you will, but unconquered and with oodles of cash in the treasury.’
‘Not easy, but I get the idea!’
‘They put great store too by physical courage and strength. Now they can no longer show their prowess on the battlefield, they demonstrate their power through sport. Hunting, wrestling, polo, elephant fights, pig sticking, that sort of thing. You must get someone to show you the armoury while you’re down there — it’s very special. Well, it was apparently son number one’s charming habit to show his strength by wrestling with panthers.’
‘Good God! I’m surprised the heir to the throne was allowed to do that!’
‘Not quite as dangerous as it sounds. I’m unhappy to say that this chap fixed the odds. He had a black panther kept in a large cage in the palace courtyard. He’d had it declawed and its jaws sewn up. He’d go down every morning and wrestle with it to the fawning admiration of the courtiers. It was his custom to use a panther in this way and then turn it over to the elephant pens to give the beasts trampling practice.’
Joe’s mouth was a tight line of distaste but he remained silent.
George went on, his joviality fractionally strained, ‘One day, this charmer rolled out of bed, said his morning prayers, consumed his customary dose of opium to give him strength and courage and went down for his prebreakfast wrestle. Trouble is, this time the panther won. During the night, someone had replaced the declawed panther with a fresh and very angry beast who wasn’t playing by the rules. It tore him to pieces.’
‘Appalling!’ Joe murmured. ‘Did they find out who’d replaced the animal?’
‘I don’t suppose anything like a Scotland Yard enquiry took place but there was retribution. The Master of the Hunt and all his assistants disappeared at once and haven’t been seen since. It’s assumed they were quietly executed.’
‘Didn’t Claude Vyvyan have something to say about that?’
‘Apparently not. I’m still awaiting his report.’
There was something in George’s tone which alerted Joe. He knew him well enough by now to be able to pick up his unexpressed thoughts. Certainly time he got out of India! Almost resentfully, he followed where George was leading him.
‘A man you can trust, Vyvyan? It sounds as though you’re going to need to trust him, the way things are going in Ranipur. A regency is no small matter. Calls for a skilled and loyal servant of the Empire and one who’s prepared to put in a concentrated effort over a period of time. . Is this what we have in Vyvyan, Sir George?’
‘Highly qualified fellow. Talented. . thorough. . ambitious, you’d say. But, well, you understand, I’m always glad to have an unbiased pair of eyes to spy out the land. Let me know what you make of him, Joe. That’s another reason I want you down there, my boy. Find out, if you can, what’s really going on in Ranipur, will you? Look on this in hunting terms, shall we? We’re out in the jungle, unseen danger lurking behind every bush, and some helpful forest creature gives a warning cry. What do you do? Well, you interpret the cry and check your gun’s loaded. Then you wait and watch and see what comes creeping out of the undergrowth. Come on, let’s go and have lunch then we’ll get our shooting practice in.’
He turned to Joe and looked at him steadily. ‘My boy, there are man-eaters about in Ranipur, certainly one with stripes and four legs but quite possibly another prowling the palace corridors on two legs. Be careful, Joe!’
Chapter Four
Joe very much enjoyed Indian first class rail travel. He liked the comfortable buttoned black leather upholstery, he appreciated the block of ice sharing a tin bath with a dozen bottles of India Pale Ale, strong and hoppy, and he watched as one by one their labels floated off. He listened with half his mind to Edgar’s anecdotal conversation and was glad enough to have escaped from Simla.
It was late afternoon before they arrived at the junction with the private rail link with Ranipur. ‘Say goodbye to comfort,’ said Edgar. ‘From now on we’re on the narrow gauge, colloquially known as the Heatstroke Express. I keep talking to Udai about it but he never travels by train himself and he doesn’t know how the rest of the world suffers. You would think that some of the nobs who use the little railway would have told him.’ He rose to his feet, began to button himself up and committed his cigar to a deep ashtray. Joe joined him to look out of the window.
‘Behold the powerful state of Ranipur!’
‘Powerful? Would you say powerful?’ Joe asked.
‘Well, it’s all relative, isn’t it? Some would say prosperous, successful, untroubled.’
‘But having a bloodstained past?’
‘Yes, indeed, and possibly a bloodstained future as well.’
Joe gave him a sharp look. ‘You sound a bit ominous. Ancestral voices, do I hear, prophesying war?’
An unaccustomed look of uncertainty passed briefly over Edgar’s florid features and he paused a moment before replying. ‘Nothing as definite as that but I’ll answer your question properly when I find out why, I mean really why I’ve been summoned by Udai. Devious old twister that he is!’
They stepped down into the extreme of an Indian summer’s day.
‘Heatstroke Express!’ said Joe. ‘I see what you mean!’ And a little train whistling and steaming sweatily stood by on another line to receive them.
‘Only an hour,’ said Edgar. ‘We’ll probably survive. People mostly do.’
But they didn’t have to make the experiment. As they walked across the station forecourt they turned to look at a large white car approaching them at speed and trailing a cloud of dust.
‘Ha!’ said Edgar with satisfaction. ‘A great honour! They’ve sent the Rolls! I wonder if it’s for you or me?’
‘Can’t be for me,’ said Joe. ‘He didn’t know I was coming. Did he?’
‘My dear chap,’ said Edgar, ‘you haven’t begun to understand Udai if you imagine he doesn’t know who’s come, who’s gone, who to expect, who not to expect and what you’ve got packed in your luggage!’
For a startled moment, Joe had a vision of the dark metal of the snub-nosed gun nestling amongst his dress shirts and hoped he’d remembered to lock his trunk. Joe’s eyes followed it anxiously as it was moved with Indian efficiency along with other luggage from the mainline on to the waiting narrow gauge train. For a moment he regretted not keeping the gun tucked away in his belt in spite of the discomfort. He turned his attention back to the open-topped Rolls Royce Phantom and looked and looked again at the two people in the front seats.
The passenger seat was occupied by an Indian wearing a smartly tailored but dusty chauffeur’s uniform. Hatless and dishevelled, he was holding on to a leather strap, bracing himself as the car came to an abrupt halt at their feet. The driver, a slim figure in khaki trousers and white shirt, applied the handbrake and jumped out to greet them. She took off the borrowed chauffeur’s cap, releasing a shining fall of fair hair, and knocked the cap against her knee to shake off the thick layer of dust.
‘Edgar. How nice to see you again.’ Her tone was formal rather than warm and her attention moved rather more quickly than was polite from Edgar to himself.