‘Then damn their eyes. And damn them for locking up my Rolls-Royce.’

  Twenty-Nine

  A persistent tapping on the casement woke me from a dreaming sleep. I had closed the curtains tightly against last night’s moonlight and now could not see whether it was day or night. Someone hissed at me through the slightly open window.

  I went to see who it could be. The figure stepped back. He was dressed in white and gave a small bow.

  I opened the window wider. ‘Ijahar, what are you doing here?’

  ‘Memsahib, the maharani will see you.’

  ‘Now?’

  He nodded.

  Never let it be said that I declined a royal summons. ‘Give me a few moments. Wait by my motor.’

  ‘Your motor?’

  ‘It’s blue.’

  I dressed quickly and left the room.

  Unfortunately, not another soul stirred, and the outer doors were still locked.

  I went back to my room, and climbed out of the window, feeling like a character in a girls’ adventure story.

  Ijahar stood by the car. When I asked him to get in, he shook his head and took two steps back indicating that he would ride on the step. Fearful of his falling off and my having to explain one more body, we compromised. He took his place in the dickey seat.

  We entered Bolton Hall by a side door, a servants’ entrance. A scullery maid turned away as we approached, averting her eyes as we passed, though I knew she had made sure of a good sly glance.

  ‘This way, memsahib.’

  I followed Ijahar up a steep, dingy staircase, a servants’ staircase that led to an uncarpeted landing. A discreet door allowed servants to enter and leave their betters’ rooms with a minimum of disturbance. The communicating door led to a carpeted landing. I followed Ijahar. He tapped on a door. No one answered. He opened it, and waved me inside.

  The shutters of the room were half open, allowing a pale yellow light to illuminate the opulent woven rug on which silk, brocade and velvet cushions were placed. The rich colours of the rug and of the patterned cushions, mulberry, scarlet, wine and royal blue transformed the room into something out of the Arabian Nights.

  Sitting on the floor is not something I do a lot. I gathered my skirt and chose a plum-coloured velvet cushion with moons and stars embroidered in gold thread.

  On the rug were unrolled parchments and ruled foolscap of the kind on which musicians write their pieces. The parchments were held down at the corners by ornate gold paperweights. There were pens and different coloured inks. The papers were dotted with symbols and inscriptions. Further off, to the side of the rug, were rolled parchments, tied with silk ribbons. Someone had been busy.

  One of the parchments was decorated with signs of the zodiac. With a shiver, I wondered whether Prince Narayan’s death had been foretold.

  Gliding like a ghost, Indira stepped into the dimly lit room. Her slippers were woven of gold thread.

  I stood to greet her.

  She apologised for summoning me so early, and then sat down on a red-gold cushion embroidered with a pattern of pomegranates, motioning me to sit.

  I waited for her to speak first.

  ‘Thank you for coming, Mrs Shackleton. I could not sleep, you see.’ For someone who had not slept, she looked perfect, with barely a shadow under her eyes. ‘You are a widow?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I thought so. We Hindus are taught from an early age to accept our lot on earth without complaint. Some are born into suffering and sorrow because in a previous life they were not pure in heart, and so did not find the way to God. But it is hard when you are not born into suffering and sorrow and it finds you regardless.’ She glanced at one of the scrolls. ‘You have noticed the charts.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘The astrologer must find an auspicious day for us to make our journey home with my husband’s ashes.’

  ‘And has he found such a day?’

  ‘Not yet. You see, a day that suited my father-in-law was wrong for my son and his grandmother. A day that is right for them and me may prove unsuitable for Prince Jaya. But I expect you dismiss astrology.’

  ‘I don’t know enough about it to be dismissive.’

  ‘Many Europeans regard it as mumbo jumbo but I have found that it accords with what will come to pass. My husband and I were married on a propitious day, and each day I gave birth was marked in my horoscope as propitious.’

  If that was her belief, she must regret not having every day of Narayan’s life cast. On Friday, he should have taken greater care.

  ‘You have other children, your highness?’

  ‘Yes, two daughters. They are in Simla with their ayahs – their nursemaids. My father-in-law thinks the journey by ship is too much for them. The youngest is only seven years old, the age I was when the Tika Raja and I were betrothed.’

  ‘You were very young.’

  ‘We married when I was sixteen and he was eighteen. If you had seen the two of us together on our wedding day, you would have thought we were a prince and princess from the Arabian Nights.’

  I smiled. ‘I can imagine, just by looking at what you have here, and how you dress.’

  ‘He was educated in England. I was educated in Switzerland. At our wedding celebration, we realised we had both forgotten how to eat with our fingers. Later, we laughed about it.’

  ‘What a happy memory.’

  ‘I told you about our education so that you may understand. I feel not fully Indian, and not European either. I should not be here speaking to you, but holding a long silence, day upon day of silence. And I should ensure that my husband is treated in death as in life, with the respect and ceremony due to him. I wish you could retrieve the Gattiawan diamond in time for his funeral today.’

  ‘So do I wish that, but it seems most unlikely.’

  She sighed. ‘Perhaps, perhaps not. You have something I recognise, persistence, a way of looking at the world with clear eyes. We have in common that we are widows, and we have something else in common.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘There are some matters that cannot be spoken aloud.’ She fidgeted with the hem of her sari. ‘These are the matters we most wish to know.’

  ‘If we cannot speak of something, then how can it be brought into the open?’

  ‘It is important to know. Because… Tell me your opinion of the inquest verdict. What did you think?’

  ‘It is a plausible verdict.’

  ‘It might be plausible, except that my husband was an exceptional horseman and an experienced huntsman.’ She was echoing what Lydia Metcalfe had said. I made no answer. ‘Servants talk, Mrs Shackleton, and some of that talk finds its way to me. There is a fine minaret by a lake, near Lahore. It was built by Emperor Jahangir as a monument to Mansraj, one of his pet deer.’

  ‘Oh?’

  She looked at me closely. She could not have said more plainly that she had heard about Joel Withers, the pet doe Narayan had shot, and the talk of Joel as having taken revenge.

  ‘I hadn’t heard that story, your highness. It must be unique, a monument to a deer.’

  There was a tap on the door. She tensed.

  The door opened. Ijahar bowed, ‘Highness, the maharani is from her bed.’

  She dismissed him with a nod. ‘I must go. You will think about what I have said?’

  She stood, and so did I. ‘With respect, your highness, you have said nothing. I cannot read your mind.’

  And I should have added that I could do nothing. If my suspicions were correct and Joel had shot the crown prince of Gattiawan because he killed a pet doe, then that information would be far worse to live with than a verdict of accidental death.

  She hesitated. ‘You are right. I heard that you are a private investigator. We understood each other at the inquest. I wrongly expected you to read my thoughts.’

  ‘What are your thoughts?’

  ‘I want to know who killed my husband. Your government will find out. They will need to know for their own information, but they will not tell me, or the Maharajah Shivram. Will you tell me, if you learn the truth?’

  I hesitated.

  She waited only for a few seconds for a reply I did not give. ‘Perhaps you will, or perhaps not. After this visit, I will never set foot in this country again.’

  ‘I am sorry that this place will have such bad memories for you.’

  She waved her hand, dismissing my words. ‘There is something else. I want to take the Gattiawan diamond home with me. It belongs to us. Its history links it to the Rajputs. My husband and father-in-law would have traded it for favours, but not now. It must be returned, so that it will adorn my son, Rajendra, when he becomes Maharajah of Gattiawan. Today my husband will go to the funeral pyre. It will be the first time in seven generations that a Gattiawan maharajah will be carried to the cremation grounds unadorned by the diamond. I believe that woman has it, that she grasped her moment to take it when Narayan did not return from his ride.’

  Ijahar made a slight movement. A floorboard creaked under his foot.

  ‘You will help me? You will try to recover the diamond?’

  I hesitated, but found it impossible to refuse. ‘I will try. Usually I look for missing persons. They can be difficult enough to find, but a precious gem…’ I almost added that it could be cut and sold, but that seemed too cruel.

  ‘Thank you. The diamond must be returned. You will be well rewarded, Mrs Shackleton.’ At the door she turned, ‘Can you find your way out?’

  ‘Yes.’

  She was gone. Ijahar followed her, closing the door gently behind him.

  After a moment or so, I left the room. Ijahar had led me through a concealed door, a servants’ door. I found a staircase, but not the right one. This was wider. Either the original architect, or the gardener who made the additions, had a sense of humour. I found myself on a landing with no way down. Once more, a servant pretended not to see me. I retraced my steps and followed the direction Indira had taken. This brought me to the minstrels’ gallery.

  Hearing a familiar voice through an open door, I glanced in.

  James was speaking reassuringly to Prince Jaya, Narayan’s younger brother.

  Jaya waited until James had finished.

  ‘Where is your British justice? I hear of it, but I don’t see it. The man Osbert should not have been allowed to drown himself. He should have hanged for murdering my brother. And where is the Gattiawan diamond?’

  They both saw me.

  Conversation stopped.

  ‘Excuse me. James, I was looking for you, but it can wait.’

  Jaya gave a polite acknowledgement and took a small step back.

  ‘What is it, Kate?’

  ‘I’m going to Skipton, to the inquest. Just thought I’d mention it.’

  ‘What inquest?’ Jaya said sharply.

  As if he had not traduced Osbert Hannon, I said, ‘The inquest into the death of a young man, Osbert Hannon. He accompanied Maharajah Narayan on his ride. The next morning, when he was on his way to search for him, he drowned.’

  Jaya’s nose twitched with distaste. ‘A royal prince deserved a better escort.’

  I did not wait to hear more, but as I left them I caught James’s placatory words. ‘I realise that for your highness it is very hard to accept that your brother’s death…’

  Fill in the blanks, Kate. A tragic accident. The words were beginning to deserve capital letters.

  Thirty

  Osbert Hannon’s inquest was to be held at Skipton Magistrates Court at 11 a.m. Having spoken to Dr Simonson after he examined Osbert’s body, I did not know what else might emerge, but perhaps some small detail would shed light not just on Osbert’s death, but the maharajah’s.

  I had driven a couple of miles along the road when I saw her. She walked slowly, with the plodding gait of someone who has a long way to go before nightfall. Where had I seen that walk recently? I slowed the motor. A few yards beyond her, I pulled in and stopped.

  I turned to look at her. She was young, and pregnant. The dark cloak she wore was meant to disguise her condition but it flapped in the breeze. As she drew nearer, I recognised the soft round face of young Jenny Hannon who had come to Bolton Hall when Osbert’s body was taken there. I had seen her walk by the river bank, throwing flowers into the torrent. Straight away, I knew where she must be going, and that she would never arrive in time.

  As she drew near, I smiled. ‘Are you going far, Jenny?’

  ‘To Skipton.’

  ‘So am I. Would you like a lift?’

  Her whole body flooded with relief. ‘That’s what I want, a ride to Skipton. The coal merchant took me a mile on his cart but was turning off.’

  ‘Come on then.’

  She spoke more to herself than to me, saying, ‘Thank you, Osbert.’

  I got out to help her. She shuffled across to the passenger seat. When she was settled, I reached in the back for the motoring blanket. Though the morning was warm, the breeze would soon chill her. ‘Here, wrap yourself in this.’

  ‘Thank you.’ She drew the plaid blanket around herself.

  I had been riding with the canvas down, but now raised it and clicked the sides and roof in place. ‘You must be going to the inquest.’

  She took a hanky from a pocket and pressed it to her nose. ‘I have to do it, though they said I shouldn’t. My mother-in-law took a ride into Skipton with Mr Upton. She said I should stop at home, not be out showing meself to the world in my condition. After she had gone, I thought, no, I must go meself. What if Osbert is looking down on the inquest and says, There’s my mother, but where’s my wife? Or what if they try to say that Osbert did away with himself and I am not there to speak up for him?’

  ‘Surely they won’t.’

  ‘A body doesn’t know what they will say. And now that you have stopped for me, I know I am right to come. Osbert is looking down and taking care of me.’

  She did not look taken care of, but nervous and edgy, as if dreading the ordeal of the inquest. I wish I could have radiated calm, but every nerve still jangled after yesterday’s experience. And the image of Osbert lying on the river bank kept coming back into my mind.

  As the motor roared into life, we fell silent. She stared ahead along the narrow lanes. We sped past fields and meadows, with always the fells high on the horizon.

  Jenny could not make herself comfortable. She shifted in her seat and gave small gasps when a bump in the road caused a jolt.

  Ahead of us, a sheep that had been grazing on the grass verge stepped into the road. It began to run ahead, as if herded by the vehicle. Stupid sheep. I slowed down and drove around it.

  It must have been my morning for animals because a mile further on, we saw a running dog, a white terrier. It, too, ran ahead of the car as if pursued by devils.

  ‘It thinks you’re chasing it. Poor thing.’

  The dog darted across the road. I swerved to avoid it. My passenger lurched forward and gave a small cry. I stretched out my arm to catch her. ‘Sorry. Are you all right?’

  She was turning round, looking back at the dog.

  I felt sorry then, and thought I should have stopped for the dog. But today seemed difficult enough without animals throwing themselves in front of me. My mind raced towards the inquest. I felt churned up inside, the way one does when nothing goes right and each new calamity treads on the heels of the one before. After her initial outpouring, Jenny sat tensely silent.

  Our journey was uneventful until we passed the church and came into the busy main street in Skipton where a brewer’s dray and cart delayed progress.

  ‘Do you know which way we go from here?’

  She did not.

  I stopped, and asked for directions to the courthouse.

  Taking a left turn and a right, I spotted Dr Simonson’s Bugatti, parked neatly this time. I pulled in behind it.

  ‘I’ll come in with you.’

  Although the sun now shone hotly, she pulled her cloak around her. ‘Will there be steps?’

  As she struggled from the motor she gave a sharp cry.

  Straight away, I knew what was coming. No wonder her mother-in-law had told her to stay at home.

  She folded her arms tightly around herself, as though this may stop the force of nature.

  ‘Take my arm.’

  She opened her mouth to speak, but thought better of it and shook her head.

  ‘Jenny, the baby is coming.’

  She clamped her lips tight shut and did not budge from the pavement edge. Biting her lip, she started to nod.

  I put my arm around her and had to make an instant choice. Get back in the car and find my way to a hospital, or take her into the building. Another small cry decided me.

  ‘Don’t worry. Take steady breaths.’

  A man in clerical garb stepped smartly from the pavement into the road, to avoid us. I called to him. ‘There will be a doctor in the coroner’s court. Please ask him to come to the entrance.’

  Perhaps the man was deaf. He hurried on.

  We took a few faltering steps. She stopped, screwing up her face, rooting herself to the spot.

  I called to a small man in a striped shirt who pushed a huge racketing wheel barrow along the cobbles, repeating my request.

  He let go of his barrow, calling, ‘Watch me stuff,’ and disappeared inside the building.

  I manoeuvred Jenny closer to the entrance.

  The wheelbarrow man reappeared. ‘I’ve telled the porter.’ He glanced about, checking on the security of his barrow, and then took Jenny’s other arm. In this way, we managed to step indoors.

  The man was gone in a moment, waving away my thanks.

  In the entrance, the porter’s cubicle on the right was separated by a window and a ledge with a bell.

  The porter was in the hall, barring our way. A tall well-made man, he folded his arms as if to say entry forbidden, eviction no difficulty.

  ‘You’ve come to the wrong place.’

  ‘This is an emergency.’

  He looked from me to Jenny whose cloak had now swung wide.

  ‘You can’t come in here for that.’

  ‘It’s your office or the hallway.’

 

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32