Loot, p.18
Loot, page 18
One early morning in September, the largest of these windows is attacked by a crow. It happens three times: a barbaric caw and seconds later—the brutal blow of beak against glass.
Rum sits up in bed, shocked out of sleep. He’d thought he heard a gunshot. He’d thought himself back on the battlefield, a sepoy in search of the nearest exit, which of course there never was. He hears the butler running down the hall, clapping his hands and bellowing, “Shoo! Shoo, I say!”
Another caw, another blow against the glass. Fellowes can handle the bird, Rum decides. Dealing with belligerent fowl is a butler’s territory. Rum is personal secretary and land agent to Lady Selwyn; tending to her business is his.
* * *
—
“My lady,” says Rum, upon entering the Yellow Parlor.
Lady Selwyn is sitting in one of the two chairs by the fireplace, her face turned to the crackling flames. At seventy-two years old, she is sharp, vigorous, and given to dressing in her own designs, which sometimes gives the impression that she has dressed herself in the dark. Today it is some sort of voluminous cape made of pale pink crepe de chine, floating about her shoulders like a pair of flying lungs.
“Rum,” she says, “did you hear that demonic bird? Fellowes said it scratched the glass.”
“I do believe it was a crow.”
“What did it want, do you think?”
“I suspect it saw its own reflection and mistook it for a challenger.”
“I do hope it is not an omen.” Her eyes shine, as though some part of her is attracted to the idea. “The hunt is in three days. Anything could happen.”
“Nothing will happen, my lady, so long as you do not take the jumps.”
She turns her face to the fire. “But I am so good at them.”
“Aggie,” he says quietly. “We discussed this.”
She exhales and sits back, her cape making a noise as it crinkles.
He goes to turn a log in the grate. The sight of the flames lapping at the wood makes him pensive. Blinking, he turns his back on the fire, determined to remain sharp in the presence of the guest.
Her name is Jehanne Du Leze. She sent them a letter one month ago, expressing admiration for Lady Selwyn’s collection of curiosities from the Orient, including the famous automaton Tipu’s Tiger: If Lady Selwyn should wish to enhance her collection, and the Wealth of England, with these items, I would be happy to visit and make terms.
Several years ago, Rum accompanied Lady Selwyn to London for the two-year anniversary of the Siege at Seringapatam. Ladies sported little round hats, each with a long Mughal-style plume nodding from the front. Servants wore tunics cinched with tiger-striped sashes. For a shilling, crowds gathered beneath a mural on the ceiling, which slowly cycled through the various stages of the siege. Here were the English forces massing around the ramparts of the fort (no sign of sepoys, Rum noticed); here was Tipu shooting a rifle into the crowds; Wellesley holding a lantern over the dying body of Tipu (confoundingly shirtless, a sword cut in his muscular torso); the palace burning; big-bottomed native women carried off like sacks of grain; the flag of the East India Company flapping from the ramparts.
For two more shillings, the crowds formed a line that snaked around the block for the chance to see, up close, the automaton billed as Tipu’s Tiger. Most approached it with reverence and awe, half crouching to get a look at where the tiger’s tooth sank into the soldier’s neck. Some of the ladies paled, and had to be escorted away. Of course, there was the occasional ape who plunked his hands on the organ keys and sang “God Save the Queen” as if he had invented irony itself.
Throughout the festivities, Rum remained by Lady Selwyn’s side. She attained something of a celebrity status as the owner of the automaton, and as such she attracted the Tipu fanatics. One zealot tried to sell her a tiny bundle of hair in a clear case, swearing the hair had been clipped from Tipu’s mustache. The gall! Even more galling: Lady Selwyn actually squinted at the hairball and asked Rum to go looking for a magnifying glass.
Lady Selwyn has always been a dreamy type, easily taken in by auras and imaginings. It is, in part, what he admires about her.
Rum wishes only to protect her from those who would take advantage. (Such grifters are everywhere, and take all forms, even quite possibly that of a Frenchwoman with admirable handwriting, laced with persuasive little flourishes.) And even if the Frenchwoman is right, and these are indeed the possessions of Tipu Sultan, what would anyone want with a cushion into which the tyrant had farted away his final days?
Were it up to Rum, the Frenchwoman would be given a quick tour of the house and sent packing. But Lady Selwyn insists on taking a peek at the fabled objects. “If they’re fake, I’ll know within minutes,” she has said.
* * *
—
At half past ten, Fellowes appears in the doorway and announces the arrival of Miss Jehanne Du Leze. Fellowes does not look at Rum, and knows better than to look twice at Lady Selwyn’s cape. Instead he addresses the window and steps aside.
In she comes: a woman with dark hair and streaks of pink in her cheeks, as if she’d run all the way to the house. She wears a yellow dress, open at the neck, and on her head is perched a bizarre little turban of bright yellow.
“My lady,” she says with a curtsy. “Enchantée.”
“Welcome.” Lady Selwyn gestures to the open seat. “Please, join me by the fire. I trust the coach was smooth?”
“So smooth I was able to read my newspaper, madame. Your English coach is far superior to ours.”
“And what is the news from France?” says Lady Selwyn. “Aside from whatever the Little Corporal is stirring up.”
“Indeed these are precarious times, madame.” The Frenchwoman gives a little shrug, then offers: “Though you would not know it from the weather.”
Suavely played, thinks Rum, waiting by the fireplace to be introduced. The ladies compare last year’s summer with this one. Rum notes the satin purse in her lap. Not silk. Not a woman of means. He catches her eye.
“This is Mr. Rum,” says Lady Selwyn, “my land agent and advisor.”
“Enchantée,” says the Frenchwoman, dipping her head so that the tail of her hat flops over her shoulder. Rum finds the hat ridiculous, even repellent.
“I must say, that is a splendid hat,” says Lady Selwyn.
“Merci, madame.” The Frenchwoman touches the fringe. “I made it myself, in the Mughal fashion.”
“Did you?” Lady Selwyn touches the clasp of her cape. “I made this clasp from a tieback on my curtains.”
“How very clever, madame!”
“I design many of my clothes and all of my hunting outfits. But I have never endeavored to make a hat.” Lady Selwyn’s eyes gleam with inspiration.
“Would you like to try mine, madame? Is it wrong to ask?”
Lady Selwyn accepts with delight.
“Does it suit?” she asks, cocking her head at Rum, who cannot even voice a word of tactful disagreement before the Frenchwoman cuts in:
“Madame looks like a world traveler.”
“Oh, how I wish to travel. I used to, with Lord Selwyn. But I am getting on in years.”
“And the house requires Lady Selwyn’s constant attention,” says Rum.
“Yes.” Lady Selwyn nods at Rum. “That, too.”
“But what is there to see when you live in one of the most beautiful country houses in Europe?” Miss Jehanne smooths the risen brown strands of her hair. “French country houses hardly come close. Much to our envy.”
She smiles eagerly around the room, until her smile comes to rest on Rum, who is not smiling at all.
“I wonder,” says Rum, “if we shouldn’t see to the matter in your letter.”
“Of course. Monsieur?” she calls to Fellowes, who is standing by the doorway. “Would you be so kind as to call my valet?”
Valet? Rum is astonished. No maid?
Even more astonishing: the valet who enters is a young man with brown skin and black hair and a severe side part. In his arms he carries a leather trunk. Rum stares. He has not seen another Indian in six years. He has seen Africans in London. Even made the mistake of asking a Turkish fellow if he was from India, much to the Turk’s offense. But this one is Indian, he is sure of it. And not just Indian. That nose, that fleshy, flaring nose. That nose is Malabar or Madras. That nose is his own.
“Rum,” says Lady Selwyn, a bit sharply. “Would you please bring the little table?”
Jerking into action, Rum retrieves a corner table and sets it before the guests. The valet places the trunk on top and unlatches the lid.
Miss Jehanne reaches out her hand. “The cushion, Abbas.”
Rum, having resumed his place by the mantel, now freezes. Abbas. A Muslim, then. Hyderabadi, perhaps…
“Rum,” says Lady Selwyn, holding up the cushion. “What do you think?”
“Hmmm,” he says neutrally, peering down at the cushion and its tangle of gold embroidery.
“Indeed it is Tipu’s emblem,” Lady Selwyn says. “The tiger devouring the two-headed bird of the Wodeyar dynasty.”
“Which dynasty?” asks Miss Jehanne.
“The Woe-dee-yars. Just one of Tipu’s many sworn enemies. Well, before he was killed. Now we’ve installed one of their children in his place.”
“A ten-year-old, I believe,” says Rum, trying to detect some response from the valet, annoyance or allegiance. The valet maintains the same reserved look, even as he brings forth from the bag a folded garment.
“And this,” says Miss Jehanne, unfurling the garment so that it drapes across her own lap, “is called a jama. It is Tipu Sultan’s robe, which my father saw him wear on occasion.”
The fabric is a faded white muslin woven with translucent stripes and patterned with blazes of gold foil.
“I dare say.” Lady Selwyn examines the reverse side of the fabric. “This pattern is typical Tipu. No one else would’ve been allowed to use it.”
Finally the valet presents Miss Jehanne with a small velvet box held in both his hands. Just as Rum was taught, when presenting a gift. Give and take with both hands.
“May I?” asks Miss Jehanne, and slips the ring on Lady Selwyn’s pointer finger.
Lady Selwyn raises her hand, regarding the ring with a dreamy expression. “This one has an aura, does it not?”
At the mention of auras—a dangerous turn—Rum decides it is time to intervene. “From where did you obtain these things, miss?”
There follows the same old story about her father the clockmaker, Tipu his patron. Rum listens for inconsistencies, of which there are none. “My father was a favorite of Tipu Sultan and received these gifts before returning to France. I have no use for them, but I would prefer to leave them to a patron who would preserve them.”
“For a price,” Rum adds.
“To be negotiated,” says Miss Jehanne.
Lady Selwyn strokes the robe. “Look at the workmanship, Rum.”
He pinches the fabric. “Looks a bit worn.”
“Perhaps because he wore it,” says Miss Jehanne.
The ladies discuss the howdah cushion, Miss Jehanne claiming that it is from Tipu’s own battle elephant, perhaps the very elephant, they speculate together, on which he rode into the Battle of Pollilur…
Meanwhile Rum is holding the ring up to the window. The agate is thick and smoothly hewn, rippling with hues of caramel and cream. It is not the agate itself that holds his interest so much as the hole that once fitted the tyrant’s weakest finger.
“Try it on, monsieur.”
Miss Jehanne’s voice seems to reach him from far away, and he realizes that the two women are staring at him.
He sets the ring on top of the table. “I doubt it would fit. They say he was very fat.” He returns to Lady Selwyn’s side and awaits a change of subject.
“Well,” says Lady Selwyn, “this is all very interesting. How long will you be staying in the village?”
“A few nights only, madame.”
Lady Selwyn says she will have to consult with her advisors (of whom Rum knows himself to be the only one), and possibly bring someone from London to appraise the ring. “As you wish, madame.” Miss Jehanne submits a regretful smile as if aware that the answer, eventually, will be no. “I shall not take up more of your time. But I do wish to know…” She winces a little. “Is it possible to tour the house? We have come from so far—”
“My dear, it goes without saying. I used to guide the tours myself.” Lady Selwyn rises, continuing to speak as she leads the way to the entrance hall. “But then someone broke the bill of my Roman eagle. First century AD, that statue. And to conceal their mischief, they pocketed the piece! That is why I’ve shut my house to the general public and only receive select guests.” Lady Selwyn shakes her head, as if confounded by human nature. “The problem with people is that they look with their hands.”
She stops at the foot of the staircase, beneath the gloomy glow of a wrought-iron lantern. “Perhaps you recognize the design of these stairs. I based them on the library staircase at Rouen Cathedral.”
“Ah, yes! I did find them familiar. You have been to Rouen, madame?”
“No, but I saw the staircase in a book and liked it very much. I desired a sort of stylish melancholy.” She points out the tapered columns, the vaulted and arched windows, drawing their gazes up to the suit of armor, which once belonged to Francis I, and now glows quietly from a niche on the second landing. “Stairs give me trouble so, alas, this is where my part of the tour ends. Rum will see you the rest of the way.”
Miss Jehanne thanks her again. “I promise we will see with our eyes only.”
“We?” asks Rum.
The Frenchwoman pauses, glancing at the valet, who is standing with his hand on the newel post, as if he were expecting to join the tour. “I, we,” she says, and gives a little laugh. “My English is sometimes confused.”
She nods at the valet, who shows the slightest hesitation before stepping back into the shadows.
* * *
—
Unlike most visitors, Miss Jehanne asks very few questions while on the tour. She simply nods at everything he says with a sort of perfunctory glance, her enthusiasm dimmed without the presence of Lady Selwyn.
In the library, he points out the pierced Gothic arches of the bookcases. “These were based on a side door of the choir illustrated in Dugdale’s History of Saint Paul’s Cathedral.”
“Mm,” she says, her head turned up to the ceiling.
“The ceiling is copied from the Queen’s Dressing Room at Windsor Castle.”
“And those heads?” She points to the painted profile of a brown face on the ceiling, wearing a pointy red hat. “Who are they?”
“Saracens. Muslims. It is a motif to signify Lady Selwyn’s ancestral connections to the Crusades.”
“They are everywhere, these heads.”
He points out the two knights on horseback—each a Selwyn family forebear—but she turns away, reaching out a hand to steady herself against the mantel.
“Miss?”
With her hand still on the mantel, she presses her other hand to her brow. “Oof, I am a bit dizzy. Too much looking up, I suppose.”
He offers her the crook of his arm, which she takes. “Travel can be tiring,” he says.
“True. I am not used to it.”
“Shall I bring you back down, miss?”
“No, please. Not until I’ve seen the tiger.”
Slowly he leads her down the hall, past several busts and curios, and into the Peacock Room. It happens to be his favorite, with the flocked wallpaper in peacock blue, the circular ceiling and its golden fractals and radials. On the opposite side, the stained-glass window throws a quilt of colored light onto the only object in the room.
“This is Tipu’s Tiger,” he says.
The automaton rests on a long table, the tail of the tiger extending off the edge. To Rum’s eye, it has the air of a neglected old hulk. There is the hole where the crank was broken off by some vandal at the London exhibition. There is the cloak of dust, lit up in patches of red and blue from the painted panes. The soldier’s face is turned toward the window, so that the tiger’s profile is first to greet them.
Most visitors walk right up, slack-jawed and staring, but Miss Jehanne seems to hang back for a moment, as if held in place. Rum fills the silence with facts. “It was discovered by British troops during the Siege of Seringapatam in 1799. Colonel Selwyn was awarded the piece by the prize committee, for his outstanding service during the wars.” He watches her approach the automaton slowly, removing one of her lace gloves. She places a bare hand on its back, then traces the shape of one of the hollowed blazes. Though he cannot see her face, he can read the reverence in her touch. “Tragically, Colonel Selwyn died of dysentery some two weeks after the war’s end.”
Rum waits as she takes her time, circling the automaton, crouching here and there to examine the soldier’s face or to close her hand around the wind stops.
“It is believed that the mechanisms are French,” he continues, “but the exterior is so crude it could only be the work of artisans local to Mysore.”
“Crude?” she says. “How is it crude?”
“The stripes look nothing like tiger stripes. Neither figure has the appearance of reality—”
“Is that the purpose of art? To copy what is?”
His jaw tightens. What is the Frenchwoman playing at? “Shall we go downstairs, miss?”
“Perhaps that is best. I do feel rather tired.”
