TWENTY-THREE

I left Surrender-not and began to run through the crowd towards her. The service over, the dignitaries had started to make their way to the waiting carriages, sharing in the muted small talk that follows a funeral no matter where in the world or what religion.

Punit was still talking to Fitzmaurice. I searched desperately for Annie’s face, but there was no sign of her.

A trickle of sweat ran down to my collar. I stopped and cursed myself as a black fear enveloped me, a realisation that I might be seeing things that weren’t there. First, mistaking Adhir’s lover for my dead wife and now seeing Annie when I knew her to be in Calcutta.

But then I spotted her walking towards a car.

I breathed a sigh of relief and ran again without thinking. The car door was held open by a uniformed chauffeur.

I shouted after her. ‘Miss Grant!’

She turned, saw me and half-smiled. There was a spark in her eyes, and that defiance in her demeanour that had always fascinated me.

‘Captain Wyndham.’

‘What are you doing here?’ I asked.

‘The same thing as you, I’d imagine. Paying my respects.’

‘When you didn’t show up at Howrah station, I assumed . .

She seemed to bridle. ‘You assumed what, Captain?’

‘That you weren’t coming.’

‘Why? Because I didn’t simply drop everything and come here with you? Did you honestly think I would?’

‘And yet here you are.’

It was a stupid remark, born of frustration and relief and of who knew what else, and I regretted it as soon as I’d said it.

‘I’m here because I was invited by the family, not because of you. Now if you’ll excuse me.’

She turned.

‘Wait,’ I said, reaching for her arm. ‘I hadn’t meant . . . It was just a surprise to see you. A pleasant surprise.’

Her eyes softened a little.

‘How’s your investigation going?’ she asked, quietly.

‘Badly. The Viceroy’s trying to order me back to Calcutta and the Maharaja won’t let me interview a key witness.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because she’s a lady of the royal court and I’m a man. The trouble is, I’m convinced the plot to murder Adhir was hatched here in Sambalpore.’

She pondered my words, her expression suggesting she was unsure whether or not to offer me her sympathies, as though my investigation was as dead as Adhir.

‘Maybe I can help?’ she said.

I almost laughed.

‘How?’

‘You might not be able to question this woman, but I could. And I’ve met the Maharaja before. He might see things differently if it were me asking the questions.’

‘Are you serious?’ I asked.

The look on her face answered the question.

‘Do you want my help or not?’

Ten minutes later, I was in the back of a car with her, en route to the Beaumont Hotel. In the meantime, I’d tasked Surrender-not to return to the palace with the colonel and start interviewing the maids.

It turned out that by the time I’d telephoned her, Annie had already sent a telegram to the royal family, expressing her condolences. And they in turn had invited her to attend Adhir’s funeral. Her arrival in Sambalpore had been even more noteworthy than my own, for if there was one thing that trumped the royal train, it was probably the royal plane. She’d flown in at the behest of Prince Punit, and had arrived that morning from Calcutta.

Annie applied powder to her face from a small, mirrored compact. ‘So, Sam, what have you discovered?’

‘Precious little.’

She snapped it shut. ‘Come now, if you want my help, you’re going to have to be slightly more forthcoming than that.’

I decided to be honest with her. Not just because she’d asked me to, but because a part of me wanted to tell her, and wanted her to be impressed. Though there wasn’t anything particularly impressive in what I’d managed to piece together so far.

‘Someone at court sent Adhir at least three notes warning him his life was in danger. And the local authorities have arrested a woman who’s about as guilty of the crime as you are.’

‘Have you any leads?’

‘I thought I had, but a man I needed to speak to seems to have disappeared and his house looks like it was visited by a couple of angry Japanese samurai.’

For a moment she was lost in her own thoughts.

‘So who do you need me to speak to?’

‘If you get permission from the Maharaja, you mean?’

‘Let me worry about that, Captain Wyndham,’ she said. ‘Besides, I can hardly get permission if you don’t tell me who it is we need to interview.’

‘Princess Gitanjali,’ I said. ‘Adhir’s widow.’

The whitewashed Beaumont Hotel was an ocean liner of a building that seemed to have beached itself a hundred miles inland. I helped Annie from the car and walked into the lobby. Tiled floor, bare walls, and in one corner a table and chairs that had seen better days. On the table slept a rather neglected-looking cat.

‘Thank you for the company, Sam,’ she said. ‘I should be seeing the Maharaja this evening. I’ll try to have a quiet word with him. Is there somewhere I can contact you?’

‘What?’

‘Where are you staying?’

‘To be honest,’ I replied, ‘I’m not sure. It’s best if you leave a message for me care of Colonel Arora at the palace.’

We said goodbye and I watched as she walked up the stairs. Then a thought struck me.

The reception was unattended so I rang the small brass bell on the desk. A native in a white shirt and bow tie appeared and flashed me a lopsided smile.

‘May I be of assistance, sahib?’

‘I’ve an appointment to see Miss Pemberley,’ I lied.

‘Of course,’ he said. ‘If you don’t mind, I’ll send up a boy to inform her of your arrival.’

I slipped a five-rupee note over the counter. ‘Just tell me which room she’s in and I’ll make my own way up.’

The man looked around. The lobby was empty save for the pair of us and the cat.

‘Room fifteen,’ he said, pocketing the note. ‘First floor.’

I thanked him and headed for the stairs.

I knocked on a thin wooden door, rattling it on its hinges. A moment later it was opened and Miss Pemberley stood there, still dressed in her white sari. I took a sharp breath: the resemblance with Sarah was uncanny. Miss Pemberley’s eyes were red rimmed and her blonde hair, so neatly tied back at the funeral, now hung loose.

‘Miss Pemberley?’ I asked.

‘Yes?’

She seemed somewhat distracted. It was understandable, given the circumstances.

‘My name’s Captain Wyndham. I’m from the Imperial Police Force in Calcutta. Would you mind if I asked you a few questions?’

‘Why do you want to talk to me?’ There was a defensiveness to her tone. But then many people were unnerved by the thought of being questioned by a policeman.

‘I’m assisting with the investigation into the late Prince Adhir’s assassination. I understand that you and he were close. I was hoping you might be able to help me.’

She hesitated for a moment, uncertain. I guessed she was still in shock. The cremation was probably the first time she’d seen the prince’s body since he’d been murdered and doubtless the magnitude of it all was only now beginning to sink in.

‘May I come in, Miss Pemberley?’

Her attention snapped back to the present.

‘Of course,’ she said, standing to one side.

The room was a mess. Half-filled suitcases sat on the bed, and garments and other belongings spilled from a trunk which sat open on the floor. She must have noticed my reaction.

‘Please excuse the state of the place,’ she said apologetically.

‘You’re leaving?’ I asked.

‘There’s no reason to stay here any longer,’ she replied. Then she shook her head. ‘That’s not true, but at any rate, I can’t.’

I directed her to a small sofa in the corner of the room beside French doors leading to the veranda. I took the chair beside her.

She sat down and composed herself. ‘So, Captain,’ she said, ‘what would you like to know?’

‘Maybe you could tell me how you first met the prince?’

She nodded. ‘I met Adi about three years ago.’

‘In Sambalpore?’

‘No, in London. It was at a function at the Oriental Club – a reception honouring the contribution of the princely states to the war effort. I accompanied my father who was there representing the Admiralty. Adi was there, along with the Maharaja. They were being feted for raising a regiment of Sambalpore volunteers, and for their financial contribution, of course.

‘I ended up seated across from him at dinner. We hardly said a word to each other, but I could tell he liked me. More than once I caught him staring. In fact, he was quite brazen about it. At the time I remember thinking how rude it was, that this Indian should presume to stare at me without being in the least embarrassed .

‘Two days later, a letter arrived, stating that the prince would like to meet me for tea at the Ritz that afternoon. Well, I was young and silly in those days and I couldn’t believe the man’s impertinence. At the same time, I was flattered. The thought of a liaison with a prince . . . well, it’s every girl’s dream, isn’t it? In the end, I decided to go along and meet him.

‘I turned up, half expecting him to be dressed like a character out of the Arabian Nights, but there he was, in a Turnbull and Asser shirt and a Savile Row suit; he might have been an English gentleman but for the colour of his skin—’

She broke off and looked out of the window, seeing, I guessed, not Sambalpore but maybe the Palm Court at the Ritz.

‘Miss Pemberley?’ I nudged.

She pulled a handkerchief from inside the cuff of her blouse and gently dabbed one cheek.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said.

‘Of course,’ I said, worrying that she was going to break down. In such a situation, there are only two reliable measures to ward off the water works. The first of course was tea, but there was no telephone to call down to reception and order a pot, so I was forced to try the second. I pulled out the packet of Capstans from my pocket and offered her one of the few cigarettes I had left.

She shook her head. ‘Thank you, no. I don’t smoke,’ she said apologetically.

I was out of ideas. It meant that if the tears started, I’d be forced to pat her on the shoulder, and that wouldn’t be pleasant for either of us. I’d misjudged her, however. She didn’t break down. Instead, she dabbed her eyes and refolded her handkerchief.

‘You went to meet Prince Adhir at the Ritz,’ I prompted.

‘Oh yes. There and then he asked me to marry him. Told me we’d run off to India and I’d become a princess. Promised me a life I could only dream of.’

‘And?’

‘Oh, it was tempting for about ten seconds. I’d read the stories about girls who had gone off and married Indian princes. It’s all wine and roses in London, but then they take you home to their little bit of India, which is generally some two-bullock town in the middle of nowhere, where time hasn’t moved on since the seventeen hundreds, and suddenly you’re stuck in the harem, just one of ten wives and God knows how many concubines, wondering what the hell happened.

‘That, Captain, was not the life for me. I told him I was flattered, but that no, I wouldn’t be running off to India with him.’

‘And yet here you are.’ The phrase was an echo of the words I’d spoken to Annie less than an hour before.

She shrugged. ‘I don’t think Adi was used to being rejected. It only made him try harder. He sent me flowers, then jewellery: small things – earrings, a necklace. I didn’t really think much about it until Mama took them to Hatton Garden and had them valued. Anyway, I agreed to meet him again. He told me then he’d extended his stay in London, just to be near me. Well, something stirred in me. I saw a different side to him – a vulnerability.

‘In the weeks that followed, he courted me most assiduously, and I began to appreciate him more. He wasn’t just some spoiled princeling; he really did want to better the lives of his people. In the end, I agreed to come out here, not as his wife, but as his friend, and only if I could do some good.’ She smiled to herself. ‘I remember how happy that made him – like a puppy with a new toy. He organised a position for me at the local school here and a month later, we flew out together. I started work at the school, teaching English, and Adi . . . Well, out here he was a different man. He showed me the kingdom, its people and its wildlife. He wasn’t much of a hunter, unlike his father and his brother.

‘It was an idyllic time. We’d go for picnics in the jungle, and fly to Bombay for the weekend. I was falling in love with him. And I felt I was making a real life for myself here, not just with the children, but with some of the mothers, too. India’s a conservative place, but in some ways the people can be surprisingly open minded . . . the women, at least.

‘Then, about six months ago, things began to change. Adi’s father took a turn for the worse. The onus fell on Adi to take up the reins. He became caught up in the affairs of state, but he still tried to make time to see me.’

‘What sort of things took up his time?’ I asked.

‘Sambalpore’s proposed accession to the Viceroy’s Chamber of Princes for a start,’ she replied. ‘Adi was dead set against it, despite the pressure from the India Office and from his own ministers. He doesn’t really like the British.’

‘Other than you, of course?’

She smiled. ‘Sometimes I think Adi’s courting of me might just have been another way for him to take a potshot at the British. Not that I could blame him. You know we were followed by Scotland Yard?’

‘Really?’

‘Oh yes. We were passing through Paris on our way to St Moritz last year. Adi spoke perfect French. He’d arranged to meet some Indians from Berlin there. They wanted his support for their campaign for Indian independence. All the time we were there, Adi was sure we were being followed. He even pointed out one particular man who turned up in at least two restaurants we visited. Adi said it was the man’s suit that gave him away. He said no one but an English policeman would be seen dead wearing a suit from Moss Bros in the French Alps.’

Now that was interesting – not so much the suit, but Adhir’s suspicions. Of course, they weren’t proof that they’d actually been followed, and it wouldn’t have been Scotland Yard men but agents of the Secret Intelligence Service who’d have watched them, but it was definitely possible. Indian political agitators were a key target of the security services. If the intelligence services were tailing Adhir in Europe, it stood to reason they’d be liaising with Section H here in India, and it might go some way to explaining Major Dawson’s presence at Howrah station a few nights earlier.

‘Is there anything else he was involved in?’

‘There’s the business with the diamond mines, of course. The Anglo-Indian Diamond Corporation have been sniffing around. One of their directors has been virtually camped out in this hotel for most of the past six months. Adi said they would be making an offer soon.’

‘Do you know if he was minded to sell?’

‘Only if the price was right.’

‘Did His Highness have any involvement in religious matters?’ I asked.

‘Not that I’m aware of.’ She shrugged. ‘He wasn’t really one for religion. He was happy enough for the people to see him as divine, but he didn’t believe any of that stuff himself. It’s his stepmother, the First Maharani, who deals with the kingdom’s religious issues. She’s very pious. It’s hard to believe the Maharaja would have married someone like that.’

There was one question I’d been avoiding. It was a difficult thing to ask a grieving woman but I had no choice. I braced myself.

‘Do you have any idea who might have wanted the Yuvraj murdered?’

She fixed me with a stare. ‘Isn’t it obvious?’

‘Please humour me, Miss Pemberley.’

‘His brother Punit of course. With Adhir out of the way, that leaves just him and the infant Prince Alok as the Maharaja’s legitimate heirs. Punit’s next in line to the throne. And with the Maharaja so poorly, he will likely be ruler by Christmas.’

Punit was high on the list of suspects, especially since Colonel Arora had told me of his reluctance to cancel his hunting expedition after his brother’s murder. And, as Surrender-not had also suggested, he did have the greatest motive of all. Still, it was important not to jump to conclusions.

‘What about Adhir’s wife?’ I asked. ‘How did she react to him spending so much time with you?’

She raised one hand and tugged distractedly at her earlobe.

‘I really don’t know,’ she replied. ‘From what Adhir told me, she and Adi were married when they were little more than children. He said that she accepted the role of a princess of the royal house of Sambalpore and all that came with it — the purdah, the concubines, even the curse. I take it you’ve heard about the curse?’

I nodded. ‘So you don’t think she’d have reason to murder her husband?’

‘Maybe if she were English, Captain. But as far as I know, she was content with her situation.’

‘Do you know a woman called Shreya Bidika?’ I asked.

‘Of course,’ she replied. ‘I worked with her at the school. And I can assure you, she is in no way connected to Adi’s death.’

‘You’re sure, Miss Pemberley?’ I asked. ‘By her own admission, Miss Bidika is not an admirer of the royal family. Indeed, she’d be happy to see the back of them.’

She considered this for a moment. When she replied, it was in slow and measured tones. ‘I’ve known Miss Bidika for over a year now. It’s true, we disagree on the royal family, but . . .’ She fell silent.

‘What exactly did you disagree about?’

‘The value of the Maharaja and his family to the people of Sambalpore. Shreya would point out their extravagance: the concubines; the jewels; the sheer waste; while their subjects, the farmers and the villagers subsisted on close to nothing, each day a balance between life and death.

‘But she failed to see the good that the family has done. The irrigation projects, the electricity, the schools . . . You seem surprised, Captain. I can tell you that the royal family has a complex and deep-rooted relationship with their subjects. They may be pampered, but they have obligations to their people too; obligations they take very seriously. As for Shreya, she may be many things, but she’s not a killer. Besides . . .’ Her voice trailed off.

‘Besides what, Miss Pemberley?’ I asked.

She hesitated, taking the handkerchief from its resting place, but this time, holding it gently to her mouth. Something in her eyes changed. The look of pain was replaced by something else: a determination of sorts.

‘Shreya knew of my relationship with Adi.’

‘You’d discussed it with her?’

She nodded. ‘Sambalpore’s a small place. I needed someone to talk to and Shreya was a sympathetic ear. She advised me to follow my heart.

‘So you see, Captain. I can’t believe she has anything to do with Adi’s murder. Does that shock you? That I should confide in a native woman, especially when there are quite so many other Englishwomen at court?’

There wasn’t much that shocked me these days. She was testing me, trying to see what sort of an Englishman I was: the type who believed that consorting with the natives as equals in some way denigrated our whole race; or the other type. The type who realised that such attitudes were all sham and pretence and hypocrisy rooted in guilt. But I had no reason to let this woman know which of the two I was.

‘I suppose,’ I said, ‘that sometimes it’s easier to confide in a total stranger than among one’s own.’

She smiled weakly. ‘I can tell you, Captain, that Shreya was more of my own than those Englishwomen will ever be.’