THIRTY-THREE

Ushakothi was a nowhere in the middle of nothingness. A forest wilderness at the end of a two-hour journey across a purgatory of stunted scrub and blackened trees caked in dust.

The Cadillac 55 had its roof down, with Surrender-not and I seated in the rear, drinking in a blessedly cooling breeze. Up front sat Arora and a chauffeur who seemed either mute or indifferent. The motion and the monotony lulled me into reminiscence.

I thought back to the war. The Yanks, when they’d finally shown up, used the 55 as staff cars for their top brass, and you saw quite a few them on the streets of Paris in T7. There were a damn sight fewer of them on the mud-bog lanes near the Front. Not that our own staff cars were any less rare.

My reverie was broken by the colonel. ‘The best time for hunting is the early morning,’ he said, ‘before it gets too hot. But His Highness prefers the late afternoon. It is not quite as cool, but it’s a better fit in terms of his waking hours.’

The car eventually turned off the dirt road, passing between age-old rusted gates set in a high mud-brick wall, and onto a track that meandered for miles through a forest of desiccated trees until it stopped abruptly at a clearing. The chauffeur pulled up in front of two white tents, each the size of a wedding marquee, and killed the engine. The silence of the forest enveloped us, perforated only by the crickets and the ticking of the resting motor. The grey sky was low and constricting, as though the gods had placed a lid over the clearing.

We got down and stretched, then followed Arora towards one of the tents. As outdoor accommodation went it was not too shabby: I’d been in brick buildings that were less solid. Within its curtained walls the forest outside was suddenly a memory, banished by Persian rugs, French furniture and a dozen hampers from Harrods and Fortnum’s.

Annie, in jodhpurs and hunting jacket, was seated in a wicker chair, sipping from a flute of pink champagne and reading a copy of Tatler. Next to her sat Emily Carmichael, a jade-green silk scarf tied loosely around her neck. The prince sat opposite, dressed in plus fours and a tweed jacket probably more suited to Orkney than Orissa.

Off to one side, Fitzmaurice, a stub of a cigar in his hand, stood in muttered conversation with Carmichael and Davé. The latter hadn’t dressed for the hunt and had chosen London pinstripes and Oxford brogues that wouldn’t have looked amiss in Carmichael’s wardrobe.

‘You made it then!’ exclaimed the prince, clearly relieved that he could now start hunting. ‘Champagne for the gallant captain and the sergeant,’ he shouted, rising from his chair.

I took two glasses from the tray that appeared and handed one to Surrender-not. As I sipped, I got the feeling I was being watched. I turned in time to see Fitzmaurice drop his gaze and take a vigorous puff of his cigar. He looked like a man trying to steady his nerves. I decided it was time to have a talk with the fellow. But before I could think of a way to get him alone, he extricated himself from the others and began to walk over.

He seemed shrunken somehow, his natural superiority chastened, replaced by something else. Surrender-not noticed it too.

‘It seems Sir Ernest may have something on his mind,’ he whispered. He gestured to the hampers. ‘If you don’t mind, sir, I’ll go and help myself to a sandwich.’

It’s a fact of nature that an Englishman abhors sharing his intimate thoughts. It’s why we accepted the Reformation so readily: we find it difficult to confess, even to a priest. And if we are loath to unburden ourselves to a man of God, there isn’t a cat in hell’s chance of us unburdening ourselves in front of a native. It would be a sign of weakness.

‘Good idea,’ I said. ‘Just keep your eyes on us.’

The sergeant nodded an acknowledgement and wandered off just as Fitzmaurice arrived.

‘Captain Wyndham.’

I noticed the sweat glistening on his neck. His throat looked red raw.

‘I wondered if I might have a word.’

‘Shall we take a walk outside?’ I asked. ‘The air in here is rather close for comfort.’

I lifted the tarpaulin door and held it up for him to exit. We walked slowly away from the camp towards the tree-line, the detritus of the forest floor crackling under our feet. Fitzmaurice sniffed ponderously at the air.

‘Is something on your mind, Sir Ernest?’ I asked.

‘I think . . .’ He paused, as though summoning up the courage to continue. ‘I think that my life may be in danger.’

I tried not to betray my surprise.

‘What makes you think that?’ I asked, staring straight ahead.

The businessman took a shaky puff of his cigar. ‘There’s a man in Sambalpore, an Englishman, name of Golding . . .’

His voice trailed off, willing me to fill the void. But I wasn’t about to do that.

‘He seems to have disappeared.’

Behind us came a rustling. I looked back to see Surrender-not emerge from the tent, keeping an eye out as promised. What I hadn’t expected was to see the Dewan, Davé, already out of the tent, watching us too.

I decided it was best to ignore him and continue my little chat with Fitzmaurice.

‘I don’t understand,’ I said. ‘Is Golding a friend of yours?’

‘Of sorts.’ Fitzmaurice stopped at the edge of the clearing and stubbed his cigar out on the emaciated trunk of a neem tree, then dropped it on the ground. ‘He used to be an employee of Anglo-Indian Diamond. I was supposed to meet him yesterday but he failed to show up. I’ve tried locating him but no one seems to know where he is.’

I thought back to Golding’s diary. There’d been no mention of any meeting with Fitzmaurice. That meant that Golding had either forgotten to enter it, something I doubted, or purposely not made a note of it. Or, it meant that Fitzmaurice was lying.

‘And you think his disappearance puts your own life in danger?’

Fitzmaurice turned to look at me. What little colour there was had drained from his face.

‘Golding was intimately involved in a transaction which Anglo-Indian is negotiating with the royal family. He was preparing a report, the contents of which are critical to the deal. I’d been trying to persuade him to give me first sight of the document—’

‘And how were you doing that?’ I asked.

‘The specifics are irrelevant,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘What matters is that he’s disappeared. Certain people in Sambalpore would not be pleased to learn that Golding was speaking to me.’

‘You think they’d kill him for it?’

‘Him and me.’ He looked like he meant it.

‘They’d be willing to kill Englishmen for something so trivial?’

Fitzmaurice nodded. ‘These people aren’t like us, Captain. They’re rather keen on vengeance.’

That might have been true, but I wasn’t sure I quite believed him.

‘In that case,’ I said, ‘I’d have thought the last place you’d want to be was a tiger hunt. Loaded weapons and wild animals aren’t particularly conducive to a safe environment. Why aren’t you already on your way back to Calcutta?’

‘Trust me, I’ve thought of that. Had it not been for your presence here, and a direct request from Prince Punit that I attend, I’d happily have given it a miss. As it is, I’m leaving tonight.’

In the distance, Punit exited the tent. He called out to Fitzmaurice.

‘I say, Sir Ernest, best not to tarry. I’m sure you’re eager to crack on, no?’

‘Of course,’ called the old Englishman. ‘Such good sport.’

The prince clapped his hands and Fitzmaurice and I headed back towards the tents.

A bearer handed out the guns. Good ones, too. Made by Purdcy’s of Mayfair – gunmakers to the King, as well as to international aristocracy and any other rich bastard who felt a need to shoot things that didn’t shoot back.

Punit made a show of examining his, taking aim at some imaginary beast to the left of my head.

‘Ever hunted before, Captain?’ he asked.

‘I can’t say I have,’ I replied, ‘though I know my way around a gun.’

‘Excellent!’ He smiled, then turned to a uniformed bearer and uttered a command.

A bugle sounded and from the edge of the clearing, four elephants lumbered into view, each resplendent in a green and golden sheet and a silver howdah – a seating platform of velvet cushions. Beside each beast walked its mahout.

‘Now how shall we do this?’ queried the prince, ‘Two per elephant, I suppose. Miss Grant shall ride with me, Sir Ernest and Captain Wyndham, Mr and Mrs Carmichael, and finally Sergeant Banerjee and Colonel Arora.’

‘What about Mr Davé?’ I asked.

‘He’s not interested in hunting,’ said the prince blithely. ‘And he needs to get back to Sambalpore.’

If the prince considered it odd that the Dewan would make the two-hour trip into the middle of nowhere simply to head straight back, he didn’t show it. I didn’t have time to dwell on the matter, though. I wasn’t keen on the thought of Annie and Punit on the back of an elephant together. What was more, I had a reason to try to stop them. A good, professional reason – I wanted at last to get some answers out of Punit.

‘Your Highness,’ I said, ‘I was hoping I might accompany you. I’m informed that Your Highness is quite the hunter.’

The prince hesitated, torn between the appeal of imparting his wisdom to a sahib and that of being atop an elephant with Annie.

‘That sounds like a good idea,’ interjected Annie. ‘Sam tells me he’s a terrible shot. Maybe he could learn a thing or two from you?’

That settled it.

‘Very well, Captain,’ said Punit. ‘You shall ride with me, and I shall teach you Britishers how to hunt tiger. Miss Grant shall accompany Sir Ernest.’

People began making for their designated elephants. I caught Annie’s arm.

‘You seem to have a bit of sway with the prince,’ I whispered.

‘You’re not jealous, are you, Sam?’ She smiled. ‘You should be thanking me. He wouldn’t have agreed to your suggestion if I hadn’t intervened.’

Riding an elephant wasn’t exactly the most comfortable of experiences, even when ensconced in the luxury of a well-padded howdah. The platform jerked constantly from side to side as the animal put one foot in front of the other, and the whole thing felt like being adrift in a rowing boat when the wind got up.

Nevertheless, the journey through the forest was almost pleasant, punctuated by the sounds of the birds in the trees and the heavy rhythmic footsteps of the elephants.

Then came voices.

We emerged into another clearing, larger this time, where stood close to a hundred natives, thin dark men with bare legs and white shirts, their heads wrapped in cotton turbans against the heat. A few carried drums; most had sticks and makeshift weapons.

‘Chalo!’ shouted the prince, and a roar went up from the assembly. The drums began and the men set off into head-high grass. The elephants, though, didn’t follow.

‘We must let the beaters get ahead of us,’ said the prince. Tn your fox-hunting, you send your hounds to flush out your prey. Here we use men instead of dogs, but it’s the same thing.’

Maybe it was, but I’d never heard of a fox that could rip a hound to shreds.

‘Are the beaters ever mauled?’ I asked.

‘Sometimes,’ he replied. ‘Not often, though, and if it happens, their families are well looked after.’

That was reassuring.

‘I tried fox-hunting in England once,’ he continued, ‘but I didn’t much care for it.’ He made a face. ‘Riding around on a horse all day in the rain, chasing something resembling a large rat, and then watching as the dogs have all the fun. It was rather dull.’

‘Well, that’s England for you,’ I replied. And I could see his point. It was hard for anyone to appreciate the subtle pleasures of a wet weekend chasing a fox round some sodden fields in Leicestershire, much less a prince used to shooting tigers from the back of an elephant.

The shouts and drums grew fainter until, finally, the prince gave the order and we lurched off into the undergrowth.

‘Keep a lookout in the trees,’ urged the prince.

‘What for?’ I asked.

‘Panthers. They’re not averse to taking men from their howdahs.’

I heeded the advice and cocked my rifle.

When the drumbeats grew louder once more, we saw the beaters splayed out in a wide semicircle, heading back towards us, beating the grass and shouting. I suddenly realised what that meant. They’d cornered a tiger and were driving it to us. I watched as the ring of men grew tighter, leaving no escape for the animal, hidden in the undergrowth.

Then I saw it, a flash of gold and black among the tall yellow grass.

‘Here we go,’ said the prince, ordering the mahout to pursue.

We gave chase through the bush, until suddenly the tiger turned and stood snarling in front of us, its muscles quivering under its pelt. In my experience, no other creature bears comparison with a Royal Bengal tiger. It is grace, power and beauty made flesh.

Punit called over to Fitzmaurice. ‘Sir Ernest,’ he shouted, ‘may I offer you first shot?’

Ever the gentleman, Fitzmaurice demurred. ‘Maybe Miss Grant would care to shoot first?’ he said.

I watched Annie raise her rifle, take aim, then fire.

The noise sent a flock of birds exploding from the trees. The tiger dived into the thicket.

‘Women!’ laughed the prince. ‘How did she miss from there?’

Fitzmaurice shouted something at the mahout and their elephant set off in pursuit. At the same time, the elephant of Colonel Arora and Surrender-not circled to one side, hoping to cut off the creature’s escape.

The beaters, too, circled round, forcing the beast back, and suddenly it was cornered once again. This time, Fitzmaurice took the shot. The tiger roared. Then came another shot, this time from the prince, then a third from Colonel Arora, all hitting their mark. But the animal refused to fall. It took several more shots before its legs buckled and it collapsed to the ground. Still it roared its defiance. Finally, Punit took aim at the creature’s head and fired one last time.

A gang of villagers set to work retrieving the beast. A native with a box camera began positioning his equipment, as Fitzmaurice harangued his mahout to let him down so that he could pose for a photograph with his prize.

‘That didn’t seem particularly sporting,’ I said, ‘what with the beaters and all. You might as well shoot fish in a barrel.’

‘It was for Fitzmaurice’s benefit,’ said the prince tersely. ‘That man couldn’t hit a moving target if his life depended on it. So we let him have a pop at some of the older, tired ones. We even have a special tape measure for him, so that whatever he shoots is recorded as being at least eight feet long. Me, though, I prefer a real hunt.’

‘Then call off the beaters, Your Highness,’ I said. ‘Let’s do it properly.’

He looked at me, then smiled. ‘I’d rather received the impression you didn’t approve of this sort of thing, Captain. But I see you’re a hunter after all.’ He reached for a silver hip flask, unscrewed the top and took a swig, then offered it to me.

‘Of sorts,’ I replied, taking a nip.

Punit shouted down to one of the beaters and soon the message was passed along – the prince wishes to hunt – and we were off, back into the tall, tinder-dry grass, this time without the shouts and drums.

We left the main party well behind. The Carmichaels had joined Annie and Fitzmaurice in stopping to admire Sir Ernest’s kill, and that left only Surrender-not and Colonel Arora, and a solitary old tracker who walked ahead of us, looking for signs of tiger activity.

We travelled for what felt like hours, the sounds of the forest enveloping us: the strange, ghost-like bleating of the spotted deer, the crack and rustle of branches as the elephants passed by, and the calls of a dozen different birds. Here, in the midst of nowhere, every thing began to seem simpler, as if Sambalpore and its courtly intrigues were a million miles away.

The prince broke the silence. ‘You know, in the old days, Father liked to come out here for weeks at a time. He’d get up early each morning, head out into the jungle with only his gun-bearer for company and shoot a tiger before breakfast. He was quite a prodigious hunter. I was seven the first time he allowed me to accompany him and Adhir. They brought out a tiger especially for me to shoot, obviously not a very good one, but to a child of seven it was impressive nonetheless.’

‘And did you shoot it?’ I asked.

‘Oh yes,’ he replied matter-of-factly. ‘Right between the eyes.’

The light began to fade, yet still we continued. The tracker searched for signs – a pad print in the dirt, a tuft of fur caught on a thorn bush, even tiger excrement. Finally, he looked up and nodded: he’d caught the trail. We pressed on, keenly aware of something new in the still, sweltering air. It heightened our senses and imbued the forest noises with fresh significance, charging them with electricity.

Somewhere close by, a crow shrieked and flew skyward. I looked up. Even the monkeys in the pipal trees looked wary. I tasted dust on my tongue. Then abruptly, the tracker stopped and pointed. I saw a streak of something in the undergrowth disappear almost instantly, reappearing a moment later.

‘We have him now,’ said the prince.

Except it wasn’t a ‘him’. The tiger was now only forty feet from us, but behind it were two more – small golden and black cubs.

‘A mother,’ I said.

‘Yes,’ he said and reached for rifle.

The tigress must have realised the danger. She could easily have run, yet she stood her ground, placing herself between us and her cubs, and bared her teeth.

Punit raised his rifle, took aim, and then everything seemed to stop, as it often does in that primal moment before the kill. Even the monkeys sensed it. From their positions in the trees, they began to shriek. I looked over at them and something else caught my eye.

A glint of metal in one of the trees.

Three years of sitting in a trench in wartime France might not have taught me much, but it had taught me to recognise a sniper when I saw one. I shouted to Punit to get down even as I leaped forwards to pull him to the base of the howdah.

I heard a shot, then what sounded like an echo. Above me the wooden canopy exploded in a hail of splinters.

‘Stay down!’ I shouted as I grabbed my own rifle. Another shot rang out, the bullet ricocheting off the silver lip of the howdah.

I raised my rifle. It took me a moment to pinpoint the attacker. I couldn’t make out much at this distance save for the fact that the man was a native and clad in a grey-brown shawl. Then came the crack of another gunshot, not from the attacker, but from our left. It was Surrender-not. The other elephant had drawn level and the sergeant too had picked out the sniper. Surrender-not was pretty handy with a rifle, and his first shot was close enough to our assailant to panic the man. My training kicked in. I took aim and fired. My shot wasn’t as accurate as Surrender-not’s but it didn’t have to be. All I had to do was keep the sniper off-balance. The sergeant could do the rest.

He followed up with another shot and this one found its mark. The gunman dropped his rifle and fell from the tree. Surrender-not trained his rifle on the spot where he should have landed, but, with the tall grass and the fading light, it was hard to make out very much.

The prince was still on the floor of the howdah. I leant over and tapped him on the shoulder. ‘The danger’s passed, Your Highness.’

He took my hand as I helped him up. Suddenly there was a shout from the other elephant. It was Colonel Arora.

‘He’s running for it!’ he yelled, pointing to a movement in the grass. He turned back to me, ‘You’re a military man, Captain. You know what to do!’

He ordered his mahout to circle out to the left and the elephant ploughed forward through the undergrowth.

‘Your Highness,’ I said, pointing, ‘please order our driver to pursue our fleeing friend.’

The prince uttered something. The mahout shouted ‘Digar, digaff and we were off again.

‘Where’s Arora going?’ asked the prince. ‘Why aren’t they joining us?’

‘Tactics, Your Highness,’ I replied. ‘It’s just like tiger hunting. Were the beaters. Our job is to drive our prey into the path of the colonel and Sergeant Banerjee. They’ll do the rest.’

The light was dying but it was still just possible to follow him. I asked Punit to order the mahout to slow down: there was no point in pushing the attacker forward until Arora and Surrender-not were in position to head him off. It was a fine balance, and once darkness fell the odds would quickly turn in his favour.

Then a shot rang out.

‘Faster!’ I shouted and pointed towards the noise. The other elephant had stopped next to a river. Arora stood on the ground while Surrender-not was sat up in the howdah with his rifle trained on a figure lying prone in the grass.

‘Is he all right?’ I shouted down to the colonel.

Arora looked up. ‘He’ll live.’

‘Did you shoot him?’

‘No,’ he replied, brandishing the butt of his rifle. ‘I just gave him a tap on the head with this.’

He knelt down and rolled the man over. The fellow was unconscious. His bare arms and face glistened with sweat, and on his temple, a purple bruise was blossoming where Arora’s rifle butt had made contact. It had smeared the ash that was painted onto his forehead, but the original shape was unmistakable – the Srich-aranam. The mark of the followers of Vishnu.

The mahout ordered the elephant to its knees and I jumped down.

‘It looks like you gave him more than a tap’, I said. ‘Do you recognise him?’

‘I can’t say I do,’ replied the colonel. ‘But Sambalpore is a small place. If he’s from around here, someone will recognise him. And if he’s not, we’ll just have to get the truth out of him ourselves.’

‘In that case,’ said Prince Punit, ‘we should get him back to Sambalpore.’

‘You are unhurt, Your Highness?’ asked Arora.

‘I’m perfectly fine,’ replied the prince testily.

With the unconscious attacker hogtied and unceremoniously dumped atop the colonel’s elephant, we groped our way slowly back through the darkness. It was over an hour before we spotted the flickering lights of the camp. The conversation had been muted since the attack. The prince didn’t seem to want to talk, and I was happy with the silence as I had my own thoughts to organise.

I no longer saw much point in questioning Punit. Even if I did, asking him about his brother’s assassination moments after someone had taken potshots at him seemed a trifle indelicate. As the camp drew near, though, the prince finally spoke.

‘Thank you for your actions back there, Wyndham. I won’t forget it.’

‘I did what anyone would have done in my position, Your Highness.’

‘Do you think you can get the bastard to talk?’ he asked.

‘We’ll find out when we get him back to Sambalpore,’ I said.

‘Be that as it may, I’m indebted to you. But, Captain, I’d be grateful for your discretion regarding what transpired today. I wouldn’t want to spoil the mood for our other guests.’

‘Naturally, Your Highness,’ I said. ‘I won’t mention it and I’ll make sure Sergeant Banerjee doesn’t either. I can’t speak for Colonel Arora, though.’

‘You leave Colonel Arora to me,’ he replied.

Our approach triggered a buzz of activity in the camp. A half-dozen servants ran up to guide the elephants, help us dismount and pass round stiff shots of whisky. The prince knocked his back, then picked up another and headed for the tents, while Colonel Arora and his men dealt with the prisoner. I was about to join them when Surrender-not stopped me.

‘I need to speak to you, sir,’ he urged. ‘In private.’

He had that surly look about him that generally heralded bad news.

We walked close to where the elephants were being fed and watered, out of earshot of the tents. I took out a pack of Capstans and a box of matches, passed him a cigarette and took one for myself. I lit both, then took a long drag and exhaled.

‘What’s on your mind, Sergeant?’

‘It’s Colonel Arora, sir. I think he was in two minds about apprehending the attacker.’

I almost choked on my cigarette.

‘It looked to me like he did a pretty good job of clubbing the man over the head. Are you sure?’

‘I think so, sir.’

Surrender-not had to be mistaken. Arora would hardly have wanted the man to get away. ‘Tell me what happened,’ I said with a sigh.

The sergeant looked over his shoulder. Satisfied that no one could overhear, he continued. ‘As you saw, after the assailant jumped from the tree and started running, the colonel took us off to circle around—’

‘Yes,’ I nodded impatiently, ‘to cut off the man’s escape. It was a sound strategy.’

‘Yes. But it’s what transpired afterwards, once we were in position, that’s the issue.’ He took a nervous pull of his cigarette. ‘Tie colonel said he thought the man was making for a nearby river, the one place where the forest wasn’t bounded by a wall. We headed for it and managed to reach the ridge above the river a few minutes before we spotted your elephant coming towards us.

‘The colonel ordered our mahout to move directly into your path, in the expectation that you were driving the attacker that way. The light was growing faint and he thought there might be a chance that the assailant would slip past us, especially once he saw our elephant. So he decided to get down and conceal himself a little further along the ridge. He told me to remain in the howdah so that I’d have a clear shot if the man came towards me.’

I was getting impatient. ‘That all seems quite sensible to me. What exactly is your point, Sergeant?’

‘This, sir,’ he replied forcefully. ’Despite the darkness, we caught sight of the attacker running towards the river. Sure enough, he saw the elephant and changed course; right into the path of where the colonel was waiting. The next thing I see is the colonel rising from the grass with his rifle. The attacker almost ran into him. Then the two of them stared at each other for a good few seconds. It was only after I’d let off a shot that the colonel hit him with his rifle butt.’

‘You’re sure?’

‘As certain as I could be given the failing light.’

‘And does the colonel know you saw him?’

‘I don’t think so. His attention was on the attacker.’

I tried to make sense of it. If Surrender-not were correct, there were two possibilities. The first was that Arora had recognised the gunman, and for whatever reason had frozen – unlikely given his military background. The second was more disturbing – that Arora himself was somehow involved in the attack, and if he were part of such a conspiracy, did it mean he’d also been a party to the assassination of Prince Adhir?

I leaned against a tree and decided the most useful thing I could do was to finish my cigarette and think it through. It appeared that Punit, my prime suspect, was himself a target for assassination, and Arora, the only man in Sambalpore that I trusted, a man I’d smoked opium with hours earlier, might be a party to the plot. If that wasn’t enough, there was the small matter of a missing Englishman whom I suspected of having been murdered by the kingdom’s prime minister, and a second who believed his life was in danger.

I stubbed out the cigarette butt on the tree trunk.

‘What now, sir?’ asked Surrender-not.

‘Now? We go back to Sambalpore and question our guest. But before that, I’m going to head back to the tent and help myself to a double of everything they’ve got.’