TWENTY-SIX
I gripped the steering wheel tightly as we drove back towards town. It had been a long shot, admittedly, but in my gut I had expected something to happen at the temple.
Beside me, Surrender-not was silent and sullen. His expression irked me more than it should have. I put that down to frustration and the dull ache inside my skull.
Arora was still in his office at the Rose Building.
‘Anything?’ he asked.
I kept my responses vague, but in any case he seemed too anxious that we not be late for the Yuvraj’s wake to pick up on any deficiency in my answers.
‘We should leave for the guest lodge,’ he said. ‘No doubt you will wish to change for dinner.’
The guest lodge was a handsome villa nestling just out of sight of the main palace. We were left in the care of a liveried manservant who led us inside and up a flight of stairs, explaining the history of the building as he went. I paid him scant attention. The only history I was interested in was what had happened to my suitcase during the previous twelve hours.
‘Your room, sir.’
I thanked him as perfunctorily as possible without seeming rude, entered and locked the door behind me. The room was on the tasteful side of opulent, furnished with the obligatory suite of French furniture and a four-poster bed as big as a tennis court. I ignored it all and headed straight for the large teak wardrobe, almost tripping on the tiger-skin rug on the floor. The thing had a mouth the size of my head. I pulled the handle of the wardrobe and flung open the door.
My bowels turned to ice.
My clothes lay neatly folded on a shelf. There was no sign of the suitcase. Turning, I frantically scanned the room, finally spotting it on a foldable table in one corner.
I all but ran over and pressed the buttons releasing the clasps. They snapped back, and with a degree of trepidation I hadn’t felt since the war, lifted the lid.
I breathed a sigh of relief.
The opium kit was still in there, and it was still locked. I fished out the key from a small silk pocket in the suitcase’s lining and opened it. All the pieces were snuggly in place. My secret was still safe. Nevertheless, I cursed myself for the idiocy I’d displayed in deciding to bring it to Sambalpore in the first place.
After taking a shower, I was surprised to discover a starched white shirt and black tuxedo and tie hanging beside my own shirts in the wardrobe. As I dressed, I tried to make sense of what I’d learned.
Adhir was turning out to be a more complicated man than I had perhaps expected. Katherine Pemberley had only corroborated what Shreya Bidika had told me the day before. Adhir wasn’t just some dilettante. He was loved by his people, and, it seemed, also by an Englishwoman. That last thought was bitter. It triggered something in me, something that I instinctively recoiled from.
I forced myself to focus. Plenty of white men had native mistresses; hell, the woman I’d been keen on for the last twelve months was hardly lily-white, so why should it be different when an Indian man fell in love with a white woman? But it was different. It was something that every Englishman knew – or rather felt – because it was never taught to you explicitly. You just absorbed it, along with the rest of the rubbish about the superiority of the white man. And while I could discount most of that nonsense, it seemed that love between an Indian and an Englishwoman was something I couldn’t quite accept.
And then it struck me. I realised that what I found truly distasteful was not that an Indian should be attracted to a white woman -that, though undesirable, was at least understandable – but the idea that she might return his love. It wasn’t, I found, something I wished to dwell on, though whether that was from an aversion towards Miss Pemberley’s feelings or my own, I couldn’t say.
Instead, I turned my energies to more productive ends. The number of potential suspects was growing and now included, as well as Punit, the dead prince’s wife, the British security forces, and Anglo-Indian Diamond. The only person I felt I could discount was the woman whom the authorities had actually arrested for the crime.
Then there was the pressing issue of the missing accountant. Was there a link between Adhir’s assassination and the disappearance of Mr Golding?
My train of thought was interrupted by a knock at the door.
‘Captain Wyndham, sahib?’ came a voice from the hall outside. ‘Colonel Arora is waiting for you.’
I thanked the voice, finished tying the bow tie and slipped on the tuxedo jacket. It was a pretty decent fit, almost as good as the one hanging in my almirah back in Calcutta. I switched off the ceiling fan and made my way out of the room.
We pulled up outside the entrance to the Surya Mahal. Several other motor cars were parked already, the palace lights reflecting off their polished chrome and paintwork.
Arora led the way, past a line of guards and eventually to a set of doors, which, at a word from the colonel, were flung open to reveal a smoke-filled sitting room, large enough to swing the proverbial elephant. To one side stood Sir Ernest Fitzmaurice, holding forth to Carmichael with a whisky in one hand and a cigar in the other. The Resident appeared to be agreeing wholeheartedly with him; indeed, Carmichael seemed the type to agree wholeheartedly with most things the businessman might say.
On a sofa in the centre of the room sat Mrs Carmichael and an attractive young Indian woman in a green sari. The Resident’s wife was cooing over the woman’s sapphire-studded necklace, and her companion seemed somewhat embarrassed by the attention.
In a far corner, removed from the other guests, the Dewan and Major Bhardwaj stood huddled, their conversation kept to a whisper. The Dewan was dressed in a cream, knee-length kurta, while the major wore his militia uniform, his chest plastered with enough medals to make you think he might have robbed the royal mint.
‘Who’s that?’ I asked, gesturing towards the young Indian woman, as an attendant came over with a bevy of champagne flutes on a silver tray.
‘That, my dear fellow,’ replied Colonel Arora, ‘is the Maharani Devika, His Highness the Maharaja’s third wife.’
That came as a surprise, not just because she looked young enough to be the king’s granddaughter, but more particularly because I’d assumed the royal women weren’t at liberty to wander around attending palace functions. I knew they took trips out in the purdah car, but I’d assumed it was only to places where there were no men present.
‘She’s not restricted to the zenana?’ I asked.
The colonel shot me a look that suggested the question was either ridiculous or insulting.
‘Captain,’ he sighed, ‘the zenana is not a prison. Just because men are not allowed inside, it does not therefore follow that the women are not allowed out. Its occupants are free to come and go as they please.’
‘Then why can’t I interview Princess Gitanjali?’ I asked.
The young maharani glanced over. She really was very beautiful.
The colonel took a sip of champagne, then read the look of confusion on my face.
‘We’ve been through this, Captain. There are protocols to consider.’
Before I could protest further, the doors opened and this time, Annie walked in, dressed in a black silk sari, its border embroidered with golden flowers. Her dark hair was tied back, and at her neck was the diamond-studded choker she’d worn in Calcutta. It was the first time I’d seen her in native dress and she glided into the room like some goddess made flesh.
Colonel Arora’s face lit up.
‘Miss Grant,’ he said, ‘it is a pleasure to see you again.’
Annie returned his smile and walked over. Arora took her hand and kissed it.
‘And may I say how radiant you look tonight.’
It seemed he and Annie were already acquainted. It stood to reason, I supposed. She was a friend of Adhir’s and Arora was the dead prince’s ADC. Still, it irritated me slightly.
Arora turned to me, ‘May I introduce Captain Wyndham and Sergeant Banerjee of the Calcutta Police.’
‘Oh, these gentlemen and I are old friends,’ she replied, extending her hand for me to kiss. I was happy to oblige.
‘Really?’ exclaimed Arora.
‘It’s a small world,’ I said.
‘That it is,’ added Annie. She had a mischievous look in her eye. ‘In fact, we all have a mutual acquaintance. The industrialist, James Buchan,’ she explained. ‘It was at one of his receptions in Calcutta that I was first introduced to Adhir and Colonel Arora.’ She turned to the colonel. ‘You must forgive Captain Wyndham, Colonel,’ she said. ‘He’s not a great fan of Mr Buchan. But then the captain tends to view most men with at least a degree of suspicion.’
The colonel looked to me, then back to Annie, and seemed unsure of how to respond. ‘Well, I’m sure the captain agrees with me that you look most elegant tonight,’ he said finally.
‘I’ll admit she scrubs up rather well,’ I replied.
‘Why, thank you, Captain,’ said Annie with a smile. ‘And may I return the compliment. It’s been so long since I’ve seen you in a tuxedo I was beginning to fear you’d forgotten how to tie a bow tie.’
I felt my hand reach for the bow tie at my throat. She wasn’t far wrong.
Sensing my discomfort, Arora attempted to diffuse the tension.
‘Come, Miss Grant,’ he said, taking her arm. ‘Let me introduce you to some of the other ladies.’
I took a sip of champagne and looked on as he led her over to Mrs Carmichael and the Maharani Devika.
I heard Surrender-not sigh beside me.
‘What’s wrong, Sergeant?’ I asked.
‘Nothing, sir.’
‘Spit it out,’ I said. ‘I’ll be damned if on top of everything I’m going to have to worry about what’s upsetting you all evening.’
‘I was just thinking that Colonel Arora seemed quite taken with Miss Grant, sir.’
Absolute nonsense,’ I said, pointing him in the direction of the bar. ‘I honestly have no idea where you pick up such ridiculous notions. Let’s get a proper drink before your imagination gets any more carried away.’
Sir Ernest Fitzmaurice broke off from his conversation with Carmichael and smiled as we walked over. Carmichael, however, seemed less happy to see us.
‘Two double whiskies,’ I said to the barman, before turning my attention to the Englishmen.
‘Any news from Delhi, Mr Carmichael?’ I asked innocently.
‘The telegraph lines are down.’ He frowned. Apparently, the monsoon’s washed away the lines to the north of Sambalpore. There’s no way of getting a message out.’
‘That’s a pity,’ I said, picking up one of the crystal tumblers that the barman had placed on the bar. ‘Have you tried the telephone?’
‘Telephone lines are down too.’
‘Well, in that case, I suppose I should stay on until communications are restored. It wouldn’t do to insult the Maharaja by upping sticks and leaving, especially after his gracious invitation to stay.’
Carmichael downed his gin.
‘And you, Sir Ernest?’ I asked. Are you planning on staying long?’
The businessman cast a sour look in the direction of the Dewan and Major Bhardwaj.
‘I’ll be glad to get back to Calcutta as soon as possible,’ he replied. Assuming the city hasn’t been washed away. I’ve heard the rains are coming down something fierce back there.’
‘You don’t like Sambalpore?’ I asked.
He took a pull on his cigar. ‘It’s a bit too far from civilisation for my liking.’
I surveyed the room and its well-heeled guests drinking cocktails and champagne.
‘What did you make of the funeral today?’ I asked.
‘Quite a spectacle,’ he snorted, ‘and rather melodramatic for my tastes. I mean, crying elephants, for Christ’s sake.’
‘Did you know Prince Adhir well?’
He took a sip of whisky. ‘Not well. We had business dealings, but he wasn’t really my cup of tea.’
‘That’s interesting,’ I said. ‘From what I’d heard, he seems to have been quite the man of vision. Brilliant even. People have told me that he would have made an excellent ruler.’
‘Yes, well,’ interjected Carmichael. ‘He was definitely intelligent. Maybe a bit too intelligent.’
‘A rather slippery fellow.’ Fitzmaurice nodded. ‘Difficult to pin down in negotiations.’
‘And you think it will be easier to deal with his brother?’
‘Let’s hope so.’ He smiled, raising his glass.
Before I had a chance to press him further, the door opened and in strode Prince Punit. All eyes turned towards him while his eyes turned towards the ladies. He was dressed in a tuxedo that had been tailored in a style sharp enough to slice your hand off. He walked into the centre of the room, his patent leather shoes reflecting light like a mirror, and gave a cursory nod to Carmichael before coming over to Fitzmaurice, who transferred his drink to join the cigar in his left hand, then proffered the right one to the prince.
‘My dear Sir Ernest,’ said Punit, ignoring the outstretched hand, ‘I hope you’re being well looked after?’ The man might have been educated in India but his accent was as English as his deceased brother’s.
‘Of course, Your Highness,’ replied Fitzmaurice, managing, in one fluid gesture, to turn the rejected handshake into the first flourish of a bow. ‘Your father’s hospitality is, as ever, impeccable.’
‘Wait till you try the food!’ replied the prince. ‘We’ve a new chef in our employ since your last visit: a Frenchman, no less. He was head chef for the Romanovs until the damn Bolshies shot them. Still, it worked out nicely for us.’ He grinned. ‘We’re fortunate to have obtained his services. They say both the George Cinque Hotel and the King of Sweden wanted him, but naturally our budget stretched further than theirs.’
The prince’s eyes strayed back towards the ladies gathered around the sofa.
‘Will His Highness the Maharaja be joining us?’ asked Carmichael.
‘What? Oh, I expect so.’ The prince gestured towards the young Maharani. ‘Otherwise I doubt Devika would be here.’ He turned his attention to Surrender-not and me. ‘You must be Messrs Wyndham and Banerjee,’ he said.
‘Your Highness,’ I said.
‘I understand you’ve both done sterling work tracking down my brother’s killer,’ he said. ‘My family is in your debt, gentlemen.’
I thanked him for that. ‘Is there a time when we could talk to you about your brother?’ I asked.
‘Talk?’ he asked. ‘I’m afraid it’ll have to wait a few days. I’ve a hunt planned for Sir Ernest for tomorrow. It’s already been cut short by this terrible business and I’m determined he gets to shoot something.’
‘A pity,’ I said. ‘His Highness your father was most keen that we speak to you.’ It was a lie, but I felt it to be in a good cause.
‘We’ll try to fit something in later this week. Now, if you’ll excuse me, gentlemen,’ he said, gesturing towards the ladies, ‘I really should tend to our other guests.’
I watched as the prince sauntered over to them. Carmichael turned to Sir Ernest. ‘You think you can do business with him?’
Sir Ernest puffed on his cigar. ’Oh, I’m sure of it,’ he said, a faint smile forming at the corners of his mouth.
The prince exchanged a few words with the Maharani Devika, who kept her replies short, never looking directly at him.
Next, Punit gave Mrs Carmichael significantly more attention than he had her husband, and she burst into sudden laughter. If she hoped that was a prelude to a longer conversation, she was to be disappointed: immediately, the prince turned his gaze on Annie. His actions became just that bit more animated, as men’s often do in the presence of beautiful women, and I realised that, from the moment he’d entered the room, it was she who’d captured his attention. It’s not as though I hadn’t seen it happen before; it’s just that it had never previously been a prince that she’d captivated, at least not while I’d been watching. She smiled as he took her hand and kissed it, and I felt something turn over in the pit of my stomach. The prince gave a bow, and for a moment I was sure Annie glanced in my direction. Then she was smiling and talking to Punit once again.
I caught Surrender-not looking at me.
‘What is it, Sergeant?’
He gestured at the still half-full glass from my hand. ‘Would you like a top-up, sir?’
A gong sounded announcing the arrival of the Maharaja. He was leaning on a cane and aided by a grey-haired woman in a dark blue sari and a simple golden necklace. Beside them was a toddler dressed in an ivory silk kurta with emeralds for buttons. The Maharaja looked ashen faced, his dinner jacket hanging off his thin frame.
‘Who’s that with the Maharaja?’ I asked Carmichael.
‘The boy is His Highness Prince Alok, the Maharaja’s third son. Devika is his mother.’
‘And the woman?’
‘That, dear boy, is the Maharani Shubhadra, the Maharaja’s first wife and our illustrious First Maharani.’
She was a petite woman, a head shorter than her husband, with a kind, intelligent face, like that of a favourite aunt. She looked over at me and smiled.
The Third Maharani, Devika, had risen from the sofa when the Maharaja entered the room; now she went over to him. She kissed the little boy and spoke a few words to the First Maharani, then took the Maharaja’s hand. If there was any animosity between the wives, I didn’t see it. Instead, there seemed to be a tenderness, a squeeze of the fingers and a glance between them that spoke volumes. The First Maharani, her job done, turned and smiled at the assembled guests, then left the room, taking the infant prince with her.
Meanwhile, I caught the look on the Maharaja’s face as his third wife whispered to him. He smiled as he looked at her. There was no doubt he was in love with her, but what was more interesting was the look the Maharani gave him. I was no expert, but it seemed that the young woman loved him back.
With the Dewan and Major Bhardwaj in tow, the Maharaja and his third wife slowly began a circuit of the assembled guests, starting with Sir Ernest Fitzmaurice. Before they had made much progress, however, an attendant entered. The Maharaja eyed him expectantly.
‘Dinner is served.’
The dining room was dominated by a long mahogany table beneath a brilliant chandelier, flanked by large punkahs covered in green baize. On the table itself sat a golden locomotive modelled on the royal train we’d boarded in Calcutta. The miniature engine hauled wagons loaded with bottles of champagne and spirits along silver tracks that ran the length of the table.
We were shown to our seats by liveried waiters. The Maharaja took his place at the head, with Carmichael to his left and the Dewan to his right. Beside the Dewan sat Fitzmaurice with Annie next to him. Any hope I’d harboured that the call to dinner might draw to a close the conversation between Prince Punit and Annie lasted about as long as a cold spell in Calcutta, as I noticed the card with his name next to hers at the table.
The Third Maharani took the seat at the far end of the table, opposite the Maharaja, and I took the one to her right.
The waiters set to work, unfolding napkins and filling glasses. The Maharani Devika was fussing over something with the servants, while Mrs Carmichael talked at her husband. That left me with little to do but try to ignore the smiles and witticisms that seemed to be passing between Punit and Annie on the other side of the table. This shouldn’t have proved too difficult given the quality of the 1907 Montrachet, but it took a few glasses before I truly started to appreciate the stuff.
When the young Maharani eventually turned to me, our fleeting conversation was the only bright spot of my evening.
‘The food is not to your taste, Captain?’ she asked in an accent somewhere between British public school and Swiss finishing school. She really was beautiful, not that you’d expect any less from the young wife of a maharaja. Large, brown almond-shaped eyes and a certain enigmatic air.
‘On the contrary,’ I replied. ‘I just seem to have lost my appetite.’
She caught me glancing in Annie and Prince Punit’s direction. ‘Yes,’ she said, delicately touching her napkin to her lips, ‘I can understand that, given the circumstances.’
That gave me a jolt. Were my feelings that obvious?
‘It seems wrong to enjoy such things at a time like this,’ she continued, directing a hard, disdainful glance at the prince.
As if on cue, the prince’s voice drifted over. ‘My dear Miss Grant,’ he said, ‘you simply must come to see the Côte D’Azur. There really is nowhere else like it.’ He turned towards Fitzmaurice. ‘I say, Sir Ernest. You have a yacht, don’t you? You’ll lend me it for a few weeks?’
‘Of course, Your Highness,’ said the old Englishman. ‘It would be my pleasure.’
The Maharani certainly had a point. My dislike for the prince was growing, and though it might have been rooted in his attempts to woo Annie, equally I wondered what sort of man could plan a Mediterranean cruise mere hours after lighting his own brother’s funeral pyre.
The meal ended abruptly, which came as a relief. The Maharaja whispered something to an attendant, who then helped him slowly to his feet. He winced with the effort and the Third Maharani, noticing her husband’s distress, rose and quickly made her way to his side. With cursory apologies, the royal couple then left the room.
The only one who seemed genuinely put out by this turn of events was Punit, and before long he had corralled the rest of us back into the salon. At a bark from the prince, an attendant cranked up the gramophone and the room soon filled with the strains of Charles Harrison singing some sickly sweet tripe about apple blossom.
I needed a proper drink. ‘Fancy a nightcap?’ I asked Surrender-not.
He shook his head, and to be honest, he looked like he’d already had more than was good for him.
‘Join me for one at least,’ I said.
‘Very well, sir.’ He sighed. ‘I’ll have a whisky, but only a small one.’
‘That’s the spirit,’ I said, and headed for the bar to request two doubles.
‘So, what did you make of the papers in Golding’s office?’ I asked a couple of minutes later as I handed him his glass. He weighed it dubiously before taking a sip.
‘The man was certainly thorough. He had costings for everything from concubines’ allowances to diamond processing fees. I’m going to need more time to go through it all, sir. I was hoping to start afresh tomorrow morning.’
‘Did you find the document he was working on for Prince Adhir – the valuation report on the mines?’
‘Not yet . . .’ He paused. ‘The funny thing is, I’ve found a lot of working papers – calculations of extraction rates, geological surveys and the like — but I couldn’t find the actual report. Not even a draft.’
‘Maybe he had them destroyed?’
Surrender-not shook his head. ‘The man had kept records of nannies’ salaries from twelve years ago. I got the impression he wasn’t the sort to destroy anything.’
‘You think someone might have taken the report?’ I asked.
‘It’s possible, sir.’
‘Who’d benefit from stealing it?
‘Someone trying to derail the sale of the mines to Anglo-Indian Diamond?’ He shrugged.
‘But surely that would merely cause a delay? I’d imagine a new report could be drawn up in short order, especially as you say the working notes are all still there.’
‘Then who?’
‘Maybe someone who wants to know what the report says before it becomes public knowledge?’ I looked over at Sir Ernest Fitzmaurice who was in conversation with the Dewan over a couple of cigars.
‘But that doesn’t explain Mr Golding’s disappearance,’ replied Surrender-not.
‘It doesn’t explain very much of anything,’ I said. ‘Now drink up before your whisky evaporates.’
He took a gulp, then winced.
I looked over at Annie. She was busy indulging Punit.
‘Miss Grant seems to be fitting in well,’ said Surrender-not. ‘One could almost imagine her as a princess of the House of Sambalpore.’
In hindsight, forcing that double whisky on him might have been a mistake.
‘That’s perceptive,’ I said. ‘I’d forgotten about your encyclopaedic knowledge of the ways of women.’
He laughed. ‘Thank you, sir. I owe it all to you, my mentor. How is the pursuit of Miss Grant progressing?’
I took a sip. ‘Sometimes, Surrender-not, the thrill is in the chase.’
‘In which case,’ he chuckled, ‘you may be the most excited man in India . . . sir.’
‘You know, Sergeant,’ I said, ‘maybe leave the rest of the whisky. You’ve a lot more of Golding’s papers to inspect tomorrow and I won’t have time to play nursemaid to your hangover.’
‘Very sensible, sir,’ he said. With that he made his excuses, said goodnight to the others and headed for the guest lodge.
I stood at the bar with my back to the room and tried to ignore the murmur of conversation behind me. The aroma of cigar smoke drifted over as I slowly sipped the malt and thought of Prince Adhir. I considered the possibility that Punit had murdered his brother. If he felt any grief at the loss of his sibling, he was doing a damn good job of hiding it. I downed the whisky and ordered another.
As I waited, I caught the scent of Annie’s perfume. I always felt a tightening in the pit of my stomach when I smelled it. I felt a touch on my arm.
‘Not particularly,’ I replied, ‘but then, I don’t often enjoy myself at a wake.’
‘Is that what you think this is?’ She smiled. ‘I’d expected a tad more prescience from you.’
The barman returned with my drink and Annie ordered a pink gin.
‘I suppose you think it’s a coronation for your new friend.’
‘Hardly.’
‘So tell me,’ I said. ‘If this isn’t a wake or a coronation, what is it?’
‘Isn’t it obvious?’ she said, lifting the glass proffered by the barman and taking a sip. ‘It’s a puppet show.’
‘What?’
‘Think about it, Sam. Have a look around the room. See who’s here, and see who’s pulling the strings.’
‘I have no idea what you’re talking about,’ I said. And it was true. But that didn’t mean I didn’t appreciate the fact that she was talking to me and not to Punit.
‘Captain Wyndham,’ she said, ‘you’ve drunk too much for your own good. Maybe you’ll see more clearly in the morning.’
Not without a hit of O, I wouldn’t. I changed the subject.
‘Did you get a chance to speak to the Maharaja about interviewing Adhir’s widow?’
‘No,’ she replied, ‘but I did mention it to his wife.’
‘Which one?’
‘The young one, Devika.’
‘And?’
‘She asked if you suspected Gitanjali of involvement in her husband’s murder. I told her I didn’t know, but that I’d be asking your questions for you and, if she secured the Maharaja’s permission, that I’d tell her everything afterwards. That seemed to appeal to her. Can you imagine what good gossip it’ll make? She said she’d do what she could.’
I thanked her for her help, then told her I needed more of it.
‘There’s another woman in the zenana whom we need to speak to,’ I said. ‘A concubine. Do you think you might prevail upon your friend the Maharani Devika once more?’
‘You don’t ask for much, do you, Sam?’
‘I’m involving you in an investigation, Miss Grant,’ I said. ‘Now don’t tell me you’d be having that sort of fun with Charlie Peal back in Calcutta.’
‘I admit, it’s more fun being an investigator than a suspect,’ she said pointedly.
The music ended and the prince came sauntering over. ‘I say, Miss Grant, what’s that you’re drinking? Pink gin? I’m minded to have one myself.’ He gestured to the barman who set to work preparing the drink with a tad more alacrity than he’d done with mine.
‘So, Miss Grant,’ he continued, ‘have you considered my offer?’
‘I’d love to, Your Highness.’ She smiled, as my heart sank through the floor. ‘But I was wondering: would you mind awfully if Captain Wyndham accompanied us? I don’t believe he’s been before.’
‘I’ve no wish to see the Côte D’Azur,’ I said sourly. ‘I saw enough of France during the war to last me a lifetime.’
‘I think you’ve got rather the wrong end of the stick, dear fellow,’ scoffed the prince. ‘We’re talking about tomorrow’s tiger hunt. I suppose you’re welcome to tag along if you wish.’
I had the impression that me tagging along was the last thing the prince wanted. That’s why I immediately accepted.
‘I’d be honoured,’ I said.
‘Very well.’ He nodded. ‘We’re heading out around lunchtime. I trust you’ll be on time.’
The music started up again. An Al Jolson record. I liked Al Jolson.
‘Come, Miss Grant,’ said the prince. ‘How about a dance? We mustn’t let the night go to waste.’
She accepted and I looked on as the two of them headed back towards the centre of the room. It turned out that the prince was quite a proficient dancer, which just reinforced my dislike of him. There’s something inherently untrustworthy about a man who knows how to dance.
I took of a sip of whisky and brooded as Colonel Arora walked over.
‘You look troubled, Captain,’ he said.
It was a fair observation.
‘Let’s just say that this place is rather different to what I’d expected.’
‘Ah,’ he said, ‘you’re not the first Englishman to have said that. Let me guess. You were expecting some uncivilised little backwater?’
‘No, not at all . . .’ I mumbled, but he was right. I’d anticipated something akin to the Dark Ages: a feckless despot with his diamonds, his harem and his people under his yoke. The truth was more complicated. There was, of course, the ridiculous wealth and the stories of the Maharaja’s antics, but there was also the sophistication: the English nannies, the Italian chauffeurs, the French cook, and the dedication to the duties the royal family felt they owed to their subjects. But the greatest revelation was the zenana. I tried, through an alcohol-induced haze, to explain my thoughts to the colonel.
‘You need to stop believing the things that your English writers are so fond of penning,’ he replied. ‘What do they know of the women they write about? What do they know of the eunuchs they are so fond of caricaturing? Open your eyes, Captain. Leave your prejudices in Calcutta. Better still, leave them in London. Some of the most astute businesspeople in Sambalpore are ladies of the zenana.’
He read my expression.
‘What? It shocks you to learn that a woman should have business interests?’ He pointed in the direction of Annie. ‘I understand that Miss Grant there is quite the businesswoman. Why should it be any different for the women of the harem? You think just because you cannot see them, that they are the ones at a disadvantage? Do you not realise that they see and hear everything? And when it comes to business dealings, to see and not be seen can often confer a great benefit.’
And the eunuchs?’ I asked. ‘Next you’ll be telling me they appreciate being castrated.’
‘I would not go that far,’ he ruminated. ‘Still, their disability does confer upon them some real influence. The eunuchs are like counsellors to the ladies of the zenana. And they pride themselves on maintaining the secrets they are entrusted with. Many eunuchs have grown wealthy and powerful alongside the women they serve. And they do so without any issues of the heart or the flesh.’
The last phrase struck me hard. ‘I suppose that would simplify things somewhat.’
‘This is India, Captain,’ he continued. ‘See it for what it really is, not for what your imperial apologists and your professors of Orientalism would have you believe. Until you do that, you will never understand us.’
His words were like a door opening in my mind, letting in the light. For a moment, the certainties disappeared and new ideas, new possibilities, took their place. It was disorientating, exhilarating. I began to see Adhir’s murder from a fresh perspective. And then I spotted a look pass between Annie and Punit on the dance floor and the door slammed shut. I drained my glass and set it down on the bar.
‘You are leaving?’ asked the colonel.
‘I think the evening’s pretty much run its course.’ I sighed.
‘What you need is a tonic.’
‘Forget the tonic,’ I said. ‘Just give me the gin.’
The colonel smiled. ‘I think, maybe, you might prefer a different sort of pick-me-up?’
I felt the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end.
‘You know, Captain,’ Arora continued, ‘Sambalpore’s wealth was built on more than just diamonds . . .’
I knew what he was talking about, but I wasn’t about to admit it.
There was a certain sparkle in his eye. ‘Would it interest you to know, Captain, that a hundred years ago, we produced some of the finest opium in India?’
A cold sweat beaded my forehead. Could he know? He’d ordered the transfer of our luggage from the Residency to the guest lodge. My suitcase had been unpacked. It was entirely possible that whoever had done this had recognised the opium travelling case for what it was and reported the fact to the colonel.
He was still speaking. ‘For a long time,’ he continued, ‘we earned more revenue from it than we did from the mines. Of course, demand these days has decreased substantially, but we still produce a little. And very fine it is too.’
‘You’ve sampled it?’ I asked.
‘Of course,’ he said definitively. ‘Does that shock you?’
‘No,’ I replied.
He laughed softly. ‘I didn’t think so.’