As we traveled toward the jungle in search of tigers the next morning, my mind was still buzzing with my discovery. Of course I hadn’t been able to keep it to myself. I instantly told the others I’d recognized Malharrao as the supposed “footman” disembarking from the steamer at Bombay. My aunt believed me, as did my friends. But I could tell Prinsep was skeptical. I felt frustrated with him, for the implications were huge.
It looked very much as if Malharrao—the wicked, former Maharajah of Baroda—had kidnapped Champlon and brought him to India. Why, I had no idea. I also had no real clue as to the identity of the two invalids in wheelchairs with the traveling party. I had my suspicions, though. Sick suspicions that were curdling in my stomach.
Could those two sick invalids be a pair of brothers we had met before? Rich, evil and ruthless, they were the perfect candidates to have sprung Malharrao from jail. But what did they want with him? Why, if it was indeed the Baker Brothers, were they in India? Where did the thieving monkey fit into all this? It was all most perplexing. I had questions, questions, questions—but so few answers.
In England I would have been able to make a better go of understanding it all, but India was so very foreign. The sights and smells of the palace bewildered me, the heaving mob of people outside the gates even more. The very air was different; hot and musky, filled with stinging particles of dust. With the royal party I was cocooned in luxury, swaddled in silk and ivory and fed fifteen-course meals. Outside the palace gates there was danger, rebellion, poverty. Yet it wasn’t as if we were so safe within the palace. Yesterday I had cannoned into a man lurking outside my door. His gold teeth glinted as he accepted my apologies, but the expression in his eyes made me shiver. Who was he? A bodyguard? A spy? I had no idea. There were so many undercurrents I was grasping to understand. High intrigue involving the fate of kingdoms and princes, and something more tantalizing in the background, something my fingers would clutch and then it would all slip away.
What could the plotters want with Champlon? What did he have to offer them? Then there were those threatening letters to me—oh, why couldn’t life be simpler?
“Kit! You’re talking to yourself.” Rachel prodded me in the side, while, sitting in the palanquin opposite me, Waldo grinned slyly.
“Oops, sorry.”
“Planning to solve the world’s problems?” Waldo asked. “All by your little self?”
Scowling slightly, I ignored him and glanced through the silk curtain that draped our golden palanquin. It was strange to be riding an elephant, but the beast had made good progress across Baroda. Through paddy fields and coconut groves, through villages of squat mud huts, till we plunged into jungle. Here the sights were so wonderful my worries fell away. We were engulfed by a canopy of trees, swarming with creepers and thick with the cries of exotic birds: racket-tailed drongo, paradise flycatcher, black-headed cuckoo shrike. The only sound I recognized was the reassuring tap-tap of woodpeckers.
As our beasts swayed under us, I spied a herd of antelope with the delicate legs of ballerinas. They watched us from the edge of the clearing, their curling horns quivering, appearing too graceful to survive this jungle. Then, in a startled rush, they fled. Monkeys crashed through the branches overhead and once I thought I saw a flash of yellow and black spotted hide, a cheetah perhaps or leopard.
Finally we arrived at a tangled gully from which a bank sloped down to a water hole. At the moment it was a dried-out pit, only a little moist mud at the very bottom to show how it must swell during the monsoon rains. On the other side of the gully a screen of creepers draped the trees and bushes like enormous fronds of clinging seaweed. We were surrounded by the screech of parakeets, the whisper and crackle of prowling creatures: tigers, panthers, boar, black buck.
My father had been traveling with the Maharajah and my aunt on the other elephant. Now his head emerged, blinking, from his palanquin. “There’s nowhere to picnic,” he called, panic stricken at the idea of crouching in snake-infested grass.
“Nonsense.” The Maharajah waved his hand airily: “We will sit on God’s earth.”
It was all right for the Maharajah. His servants produced a charming gold chair for him to sit on. The rest of our party, which included Mrs. Spragg and her bodyguard, had to make do with rugs. The swaying motion of the elephant ride had obviously been a bit much for some of my friends: Isaac and the Minchin were both delicate shades of green.
The Maharajah dismounted and placed one arm round his favorite elephant, Sonali. A beast the size of an omnibus, with great baggy eyes, surrounded by rolls of wrinkled flesh, she looked at you so sadly you could have sworn she understood. The Maharajah stroked her flank lovingly, as he fed her slices of mango.
“Sonali, my little one,” he murmured to her, as he scratched her wrinkled hide. We watched a little nervously, for one swish of the elephant’s trunk would send us flying on to the forest floor. Her feet could crunch your skull like a teacup. The Maharajah turned and saw us watching him anxiously.
“Don’t fear.” He smiled. “Sonali does not hurt a mosquito … Go on, stroke her.”
This was a royal command. Waldo came forward, but I was quicker.
Which is how I came to stroke a real live elephant. Her skin felt scabby and rough, it was a little like patting an old leather bag. A beast that weighed over 7,000 pounds, but was gentle as a lamb. She curled her trunk with pleasure, as my friends and I patted her sides. She seemed to be smiling at us.
While the mahout tended to the beasts, the small army of servants that accompanies the Maharajah everywhere, even to the middle of the jungle, got to work. They unpacked a vast array of hampers: inside were silver tureens breathing steam, tiffin tins, jars of pickles and chutneys; bottles of fresh candy-colored sherbet. My mouth watered at the sight of the sumptuous spread. Even a picnic with a Maharajah was an impossibly grand affair.
“Mulligatawny!” the Maharajah announced to our party. “I know how you Britishers love your mulligatawny!” He pointed at one large tureen in which churned a pool of brownish liquid, floating with odd, slimy things. Stomach churning.
“Most thoughtful, Your Highness,” simpered Mrs. Spragg. “Mulligatawny is just the thing in this awful heat.”
It might have been just the thing for her but I loathe mulligatawny soup.
Of all the curious dishes I have tasted in this country, it is the worst, a weak mix of the dregs of English and Indian fare. Sadly Indians are convinced that us “Britishers” love mulligatawny, though it is so watery and plain horrid my gorge rises when I taste it. I cheered up a bit when I saw the servants unpacking the trimmings that go with mulligatawny. Quartered hardboiled eggs, shredded vegetables, cold slices of curried meat, savory poppadom biscuits and so on …
“Mmmm,” I burst out, catching a hint of a delicious, sweet spicy scent.
It was the steam wafting from the Maharajah’s huge plate of spiced rice. Arranged in small silver bowls around his plate were the condiments: sauces, chicken pieces, pickles, pastries, chutneys. My mouth watered looking at the Maharajah’s plate and I couldn’t help another small gasp of hunger escaping. Rachel glared at me warningly; she was convinced that all India was trying to poison us. It is true the poor girl has suffered from the upset stomach called “Delhi belly” since arriving. But my stomach is made of cast iron! The Maharajah noticed my greedy look and made a surprised movement, as if to offer me some.
But Mrs. Spragg stepped in: “No, dear Kathleen,” she snapped. “That will be far too spicy for you. Better stick to plain English food.”
I was about to protest when my aunt saved me.
“My niece Kit and I love your Indian cooking,” she announced to the Maharajah. “We would be honored to try some of your fare. What is this?”
“Chicken biryani,” he said, beaming.
Though Mrs. Spragg looked cross, I got the feeling the Maharajah was pleased. Smiling, he waved a hand at the servants and soon heaped plates were set in front of me and my aunt. Sitting on silken rugs we tucked in. The rice was fragrant with the sweet tang of coconut and raisins. The curry sauce rich and dense and the pickles so hot they burned the roof of my mouth. All in all it was one of the most gorgeous meals of my life and I can assure you I did full justice to it. That is to say I polished off my plate of food and had seconds and thirds, managing to ignore Rachel’s doleful looks. Indeed Waldo, Isaac and my slightly nervous father joined us in the meal, though Mrs. Spragg and Rachel were extremely suspicious.
Perhaps some day I will open an Indian curry eating-house in Oxford, for I am as adventurous with strange foods as foreign lands. It will introduce those timid souls brought up on a diet of boiled vegetables and suet pudding to the tempting treats of the Orient.
After the main course came puddings and here I must confess to disappointment. We had round pale sweets that tasted a little of condensed milk and were called “barfis.” They weren’t bad, better than the dry and crumbly orange things called “ludos.” Horrible. I must confess my mind went back to cook’s treats: creamy sherry trifle, or her cake—oozing melting chocolate, rich and moist.
Indian main courses may be tastier than ours; but I am glad to say that their puddings are not a patch on British ones!
Too soon the meal was over and we remounted our palanquins. Our convoy of elephants moved on, heading into the thickest part of the jungle. We were under a dense cloak of palms and creepers that grew over our heads, almost cutting off the light. The elephants moved with difficulty, trampling their way through the undergrowth, swinging their long tusks from side to side. Suddenly there was a screeching right next to my nose and a paradise flycatcher, exploded horizontally out of the bushes and zoomed away, trailing a blur of snowy tail feathers.
We were nearing the tiger hunt. The beaters had been out in force over the last few days, looking for tiger prints. They had spotted some in this part of the jungle and had tethered a live goat to a stake to attract the beast. They claimed it was deadly, a man-eater who had carried off a young girl from a nearby village.
We came to a clearing and the beaters gestured to us to be silent. The goat was chained to a stake by a tussock of grass on the edge of the clearing. Poor animal. All that remained of it was its head and a carcass, oozing blood. Only a savage creature could have done such damage to the goat. My breathing became more ragged, the thrill of the chase infecting me. Rachel, however, was disgusted. She turned her soft eyes on me and hissed:
“It didn’t have a chance.”
“Hardly my fault.”
“This isn’t about you, Kit. Imagine its agony.”
The chief hunter slid down our flank, followed by the Maharajah. Even here, in the midst of the jungle, he was a semi-captive, ringed by bodyguards alert for assassins. Waldo, my aunt and I stalked after them toward the tussock. Isaac, Rachel and the others preferred to watch the hunt from the safety of their palanquins. We crept on cotton-wool feet, for tigers do not give you second chances.
The hunter reached the tussock and signaled to us to come no nearer. We stopped. I looked around. Out of the corner of my left eye, I caught a flash of orange in the midst of a thicket. Suddenly, something was surging toward me. Boiling eyes, ears flattened, claws outstretched. I lurched blindly as the tiger leapt at my face. A half-scream gurgled from my throat. I could hardly breathe. Choking, I cursed my aunt who had forbidden me to carry a gun. The Maharajah shrieked. Instantly his bodyguards clustered around him in a protective huddle, ignoring the tiger attacking me. A claw was at my face. It loomed before my eye as I cowered against the bush. A shot rang out. The claw fell, grazing my face. Another bullet went whistling past, so close it scorched my ear.
There was blood on my face. Then a thud on my feet. The tiger had fallen on to me, its body crumpling in a heap of black stripes.
“Thank you,” I sobbed, struggling away from the heavy beast, my left ear zinging from the bullet that had so nearly ripped it off.
The tiger was magnificent. It lay at my feet in death agony, its powerful muscles pulsing under its orange hide. It would have crushed my skull with one blow.
“Waldo, you saved my life!”
“It wasn’t me,” my friend yelled, wildly. “Where’d the shot come from?”
“Aunt Hilda?”
“Quiet, child,” she screeched.
Tension crackled in the air. The Maharajah’s five bodyguards encircled him, their eyes swiveling from side to side, searching for the gunman. Mrs. Spragg’s guard was at the side of the elephant where she was cowering in the palanquin. Somewhere, a twig crackled, setting my teeth on edge.
“Who fired?” I blurted. But almost as the words were out of my mouth another bullet spat out, whizzing past me. Heading straight for the Maharajah.
The Maharajah froze. Time hung suspended. The bullet was followed by another and then another. The bodyguards fired in wild panic. But these were like no normal bullets, they swooped and curved round the bodyguards. They made their way straight to the Maharajah, like pins flying to a magnet.
One bullet whizzed through the middle of the Maharajah’s turban, leaving a blackened hole. Another bullet was within a whisper of his soft, plump throat.
The Maharajah howled, the screech of a scared animal. His whole body trembled, in face of this bewildering splatter of death. But he didn’t duck and he would have been killed if a bodyguard hadn’t pushed him to the ground with the butt of his rifle.
My eyes desperately scanned the sprawl of bush, tree and creeper, the whole teeming jungle. The man with the gun could have been anywhere. In that neem tree over there, crouching behind that wild jasmine, anywhere in the dark of the encircling jungle. There might be a number of bandits attacking us, they might have led us here, only to surround us and pick us off at their pleasure. An ambush. Panic rose sour in my throat, as my eyes flicked this way and that. But nowhere could I see the glint of a hidden gun.