THIRTEEN

I was expecting a jewel-encrusted ruler reclined on silk cushions, perhaps fanned by flunkeys with oversized peacock feathers in a throne room the size of the Albert Hall. The reality was rather different. The room we entered was no larger than the average study, with bookcases arranged along one wall, French doors which opened onto landscaped gardens, and an unmistakable hint of mildew in the air.

At one end, behind a gilded desk, sat the Maharaja, grey-haired and crumpled in a Savile Row suit and a starched white shirt whose collar hung loosely round his thin neck like a noose waiting to be tightened. He appeared preoccupied with some papers. On the wall behind him hung a tapestry depicting some gruesome scene from what looked like Hindu mythology: a bejewelled prince locked in combat against a double-headed demon. Above it were two arched windows covered with latticework screens. To his right stood the Dewan and on the left, Colonel Arora and a turbaned attendant.

The Dewan whispered in his ear and the old man looked up. Day-old silver bristles pockmarked his chin and his red, raw eyes betrayed his grief. I imagine the death of a child will do that to a man, even one who’s sired over two hundred others.

‘Mr Carmichael,’ he said impassively.

‘Your Highness,’ replied the Resident, ‘may I introduce Captain Wyndham and Sergeant Banerjee of the Imperial Police Force. They are here to convey the Force’s condolences and pay their respects. I am given to understand that Sergeant Banerjee was a friend of the Yuvraj.’

There was a flicker in the old man’s eyes. ‘You knew Adhir?’ he asked Surrender-not.

‘Yes, Your Highness. We were at Harrow together, though he was closer in age to my brother.’

‘Sergeant Banerjee and Captain Wyndham are the officers who tracked down and apprehended your son’s assassin,’ interjected Colonel Arora.

The Maharaja stared hard. ‘I am in your debt, gentlemen,’ he said. ‘Do you have any idea what drove this man to commit such an act?’

‘I’m afraid not, Your Highness,’ I replied. ‘The man chose to take his own life rather than surrender to us. But there is evidence to suggest he may have been dispatched from Sambalpore.’

The old man sat up straighter.

Beside him, the Dewan stirred. ‘If I may, Your Highness—’ he started, but the Maharaja cut him off with a motion of his hand.

‘Dispatched? You suspect someone sent him to murder my son?’

‘The investigation is not yet complete,’ I clarified, ‘but we understand the prince had received notes warning him that his life was in danger. Those notes were left in his room here at the palace.’

The old man became suddenly animated. ‘You think the culprits are here? In Sambalpore?’

His exertions set off a sudden fit of coughing. As he doubled over, an attendant rushed to his aid, but the Maharaja waved him away.

‘Quite possibly.’

‘Can you find them?’

‘Your Highness!’ protested the Dewan. ‘The British have no jurisdiction here. I fear their involvement would set a worrying precedent. In any case, Major Bhardwaj has been working on a similar theory and has already arrested a suspect.’

Beside the Maharaja, Colonel Arora shifted awkwardly, as though blind-sided by the news. I caught his eye, and though it was only for an instant, I could tell what he was thinking.

‘If I may, Your Highness,’ he intervened, ‘I understand that Captain Wyndham is a former Scotland Yard detective, and that he is currently on leave from the IPF. Perhaps he would care to provide us with the benefit of his experience in a purely personal capacity? Possibly as an adviser to Major Bhardwaj and his officers?’

The Maharaja remained silent, but his emotions played out on his face. The thought of British intervention in the affairs of his kingdom was doubtless anathema to him, but this was the murder of his son, and that meant the normal rules didn’t apply. Then there were those two magic words — Scotland Yard. I never ceased to be amazed by the store people placed on that particular establishment, believing in the omniscience of its officers the way that tribal people do in witch doctors. Not that I was complaining.

He cleared his throat. ‘We deem it expedient to extend an invitation to the captain, and to his colleague, of course, to observe and, should he so wish, advise Major Bhardwaj’s investigation in a personal capacity. We would, of course, consider it a great service to the kingdom and would provide whatever comforts the captain and the sergeant would require during their stay.’

‘I’d like permission to interview individuals, Your Highness,’ I said. ‘In conjunction with your own officers, of course.’

Something caught my eye. A glint of reflected light coming from the screened window above the tapestry. It shimmered for a second, then disappeared.

The Dewan vehemently shook his head. ‘That would be completely inappro—’

But the Maharaja cut him off. ‘You shall have a free hand, Captain, including the authority to interrogate whomsoever you wish.’

‘In which case, the sergeant and I would be most honoured to assist in any way we can, Your Highness.’

He smiled thinly through grey lips. ‘Then it is settled. Colonel Arora will see to your accommodation and act as your liaison with the relevant officials. I trust, Captain, that you will be able to get to the bottom of this quickly. Time is short. Often shorter than we expect.’