THIRTY-FOUR

The sudden possibility that Arora might be playing a double game cast doubt on almost everything,

I needed time to think, to try to figure out just what the hell was going on. I’d hoped the journey back to Sambalpore would give me that time, but Punit had other ideas.

I wasn’t sure exactly when, but at some point after being shot at, he’d decided to appoint me his de facto bodyguard, at least till we got back to town. And so, in a black mood, I’d joined him and Annie for two of the longest hours of my life, sitting in the front of a ridiculously camouflaged Rolls-Royce, while the man whose life I’d just saved sat in the back and tried to flirt with the object of my affections. As experiences went, it rated slightly behind being subjected to a gas attack in a trench.

The prince’s chatter was peppered with talk of high society, film stars and exotic locations, all dropped into conversation with the subtlety of a howitzer. But the thing is, a howitzer generally gets the job done. I didn’t doubt that Annie possessed the intelligence to see right through Punit, but I’d imagine it takes an uncommonly strong woman to resist an invitation to Chamonix for Christmas or Cannes in the spring. What was distinctly lacking from his conversation was any mention of the attack that had just taken place, or the fact that the gunman was now on his way to the palace in the back of one of the catering lorries. That felt like odd behaviour for a man who seemed to have a constant need to talk about himself. It was possible he was embarrassed by his role in the proceedings. Maybe had I not been in the car, he’d have recounted the tale for Annie’s benefit, possibly portraying himself as the hero of the encounter. Or maybe the whole episode had put the fear of God into him.

I did my best to ignore the goings-on in the back and ran through the facts. Adhir was dead, shot by an attacker with the Sricharanam on his forehead. That man had later killed himself. Punit had just been attacked by a gunman with the same mark on his forehead. Portelli had identified it as the mark of the followers of the god Vishnu, of whom the Lord Jagannath was an avatar. And according to the anthropologist, Sambalpore was tied closely to the Jagannath cult.

That Punit had also been targeted for assassination suggested this might be a wider plot against the entire royal family, and, if so, would imply that he wasn’t the instigator of his brother’s murder. And yet there had to be some connection to the palace, or else how would the concubine, Rupali, have caught wind of it?

A plot to destroy the royal family, hatched from within the royal court. The two things were difficult to reconcile.

There was one other possibility that occurred to me, only because I was a suspicious bastard who really didn’t like the prince very much. It struck me, as we jolted over a particularly deep pothole, that perhaps the whole attack on Punit had been a fake, stage-managed to throw me off the scent. Maybe the prince’s life had never been in danger? Maybe the attacker was in the pay of the prince? Maybe that’s why Arora had hesitated before clubbing the man.

But that would mean Arora was in league with the prince. Had he been Punit’s man all along, charged with ensuring Adhir was murdered in Calcutta? He had, after all, been the one who’d chosen the circuitous route back to the prince’s hotel that day. But it made no sense. It had been Arora who, over the objections of the Dewan, had convinced the Maharaja to allow Surrender-not and me to investigate. And it was Arora who’d organised for the telegraph and telephone lines to be cut to stop us being recalled to Calcutta. Why do any of that if he was responsible for the very crime we were investigating? I was tying myself in knots. There had to be something else, some other explanation for why he might have hesitated in apprehending the attacker.

Whatever the answers were, I hoped to get them soon enough from our prisoner.

‘You’ll join us for dinner, Captain?’ asked Punit as the car drew up outside the guest lodge. ‘It’ll only be a small affair. I was thinking me, Miss Grant, Fitzmaurice, Davé, Colonel Arora and you and your sergeant. It will give us a chance to have that chat you wanted.’

I couldn’t see any way of refusing.

‘Of course, Your Highness,’ I replied, as a footman opened my door. ‘Though I have to attend to something first.’

‘Excellent,’ replied the prince, rubbing his hands together. ‘Shall we say nine o’clock?’

‘I’ll let Sergeant Banerjee know,’ I said, exiting the car.

‘Nine o’clock then,’ the prince confirmed as the footmen closed the doors.

I turned to Annie as the car moved off towards the palace.

‘You’ll need to invest in some warm clothing,’ I said, ‘if you’re planning to spend Christmas in the Alps with Prince Douglas Fairbanks there.’

‘Now now, Sam,’ she said as she took my arm. ‘That sort of talk really doesn’t become you. Besides, I’m much more interested in what happened out there in the jungle after you’d left me behind with Fitzmaurice and the Carmichaels. You and Punit spend a few hours on an elephant and now you’re his best friend?’

‘I could ask you the same question,’ I said.

She smiled. ‘Did you manage to ask him what you wanted to?’

‘Not really. I’m giving him the benefit of the doubt.’

She took a breath.

‘Adhir was murdered in Calcutta,’ she said patiently. ‘From what you’ve told me, it was a well-planned assassination, and when cornered, the assassin took his own life. Do you honestly think Punit is capable of that sort of planning or engendering that sort of loyalty?’

I said nothing and instead escorted her inside. The scent of attar of roses hung in the air. At the foot of the stairs she removed her arm from mine.

‘Do you fancy a drink?’ she asked.

Time alone with her – wasn’t this what I’d hoped for when I’d invited her to come with me to Sambalpore? And yet right now I had a prisoner to question. I cursed myself.

‘I can’t,’ I said. ‘There’s something I need to do.’

‘You’re sure?’

‘I’m afraid so.’

Her face fell. ‘Well, in that case, I may as well have a rest before dinner. It’s no fun drinking alone.’

I watched as she made her way up to her room. She was probably right about Punit. The man was a fop, a good-time Charlie. Even if he possessed the inclination to murder his own brother, did he have the foresight to formulate such a plan and the discipline to see it through? And yet Shreya Bidika, who knew him far better than I did, couldn’t discount the possibility. Who knew where the truth lay?

I walked back out into the evening air, just as the car containing Colonel Arora and Surrender-not drew up.

‘Where’s the prisoner?’ I asked.

‘He’s being taken to the guardhouse in the barracks,’ replied the colonel.

‘Is he compos mentis?’

‘He’s come round, but he’s not making much sense,’ said Surrender-not. ‘He may have concussion.’

That was less than ideal. I opened the rear door and got in beside Surrender-not. ‘Let’s go and see, shall we?’