An Ensuing Evil and Others (36 page)

There was a murmur of enthusiastic assent from the others gathered before the remnants of the evening meal.

Lord Chetwynd Miller raised a hand and smiled broadly. He was a sprightly sixty-year-old; a man who had spent his life in the service of the British Government of India and who now occupied the post of Resident in the Gujarat state of Baroda. He had been Resident in Baroda ever since the overthrow of the previous despotic Gaekwar or ruler. Baroda was still ruled by native princes who acknowledged the suzerain authority of the British Government in India but who had independence in all internal matters affecting their principality.

Five years previously a new Gaekwar, Savaji Rao III, had come to power. If the truth were known, he had deposed his predecessor with British advice and aid, for the previous Gaekwar had not been approved of by the civil servants of Delhi. Indeed, he had the temerity to go so far as to murder the former Resident, Colonel Phayre. But the British Raj had not wanted it to appear as though they were interfering directly in the affairs of Baroda. The state was to remain independent of the British Government of India. Indeed, the secret of the success of the British Raj in India was not in its direct rule of that vast subcontinent, with its teeming masses, but in its persuasion of some six hundred ruling princes to accept the British imperial suzerainty. Thus much of the government of India was in the hands of native hereditary princes who ruled half the land mass and one quarter of the population under the “approving” eye of the British Raj.

Baroda, since Savaji Rao III had taken power, was a peaceful city of beautiful buildings, of palaces, ornate gates, parks and avenues, standing as a great administrative center at the edge of cotton-rich plains and a thriving textile-producing industry. A port with access to the major sea lanes and a railway center with its steel railroads connecting it to all parts of the subcontinent.

After the establishment of the new regime in Baroda, the British Raj felt they needed a man who was able to keep firm control on British interests there. Lord Chetwynd Miller was chosen, for he had been many years in service in India. Indeed, it was going to be his last appointment in India. He had already decided that the time had come for retirement. He was preparing for the return to his estates near Shrewsbury close to the Welsh border before the year was out.

“Come on, Chetwynd,” urged Major Bill Foran, of the Eighth Bombay Infantry, whose task it was to protect the interests of the British Residency and the community of British traders who lived in Baroda. He was an old friend of the Resident. “Enough of this game of cat and mouse. You are dying to show it to us just as much as we are dying to see it.”

Lord Chetwynd Miller grinned. It was a boyish grin. He spread his hands in a deprecating gesture. It was true that he had been leading his guests on. He had invited them to see the Eye of Shiva and kept them waiting long enough.

He gazed around at them. Apart from Bill Foran, it could not be said that he really knew the other guests. It was one of those typical Residency dinner parties, whereby it was his duty to dine with any British dignitaries passing through Baroda. Lieutenant Tompkins, his ADC, had compiled this evening’s guest list.

Royston he knew by reputation. There was Father Cassian, a swarthy, secretive-looking Catholic priest who seemed totally unlike a missionary. He had learned that Cassian was a man of many interests—not the least of which was an interest in Hindu religion and mythology. There was Sir Rupert Harvey. A bluff, arrogant man, handsome in a sort of dissolute way. He had just arrived in Baroda and seemed to dabble in various forms of business. Then there was the tall languid Scotsman, James Gregg. Silent, taciturn and a curious way of staring at one as if gazing right through them. He was, according to the list, a mining engineer. For a mere mining engineer, Tompkins had observed earlier, Gregg could afford to stay at the best hotel in Baroda and did not seem to lack money.

The last guest sat at the bottom of the table, slightly apart from the others. It was Lord Chetwynd Millers solitary Indian guest, Inspector Ram Jayram, who, in spite of being a Bengali by birth, was employed by the Government of Baroda as its chief of detectives. Ram Jayram had a dry wit and a fund of fascinating stories, which made him a welcome guest to pass away the tedium of many soirees. That evening, however, he had been invited especially.

Word had come to Jayram s office that an attempt was going to be made to rob the Residency that night, and Lord Chetwynd Miller had accepted Jayram s request that he attend as a dinner guest so that he might keep a close eye on events. It was Jayram who suggested to the Resident that the potential thief might be found among the guests themselves. A suggestion that the Resident utterly discounted.

But the news of the Residents possession of the fabulous ruby—the Eye of Shiva—was the cause of much talk and speculation in the city. The Resident was not above such vanity that he did not want to display it to his guests on the one evening in which the ruby was his.

Lord Chetwynd Miller cleared his throat. “Gentlemen…,” he began hesitantly. “Gentlemen, you are right. I have kept you in suspense long enough. I have, indeed, invited you here, not only because I appreciate your company, but I want you to see the fabled Eye of Shiva before it is taken on board the SS
Caledonia
tomorrow morning for transportation to London.”

They sat back, expectantly watching their host.

Lord Chetwynd Miller nodded to Tompkins, who clapped his hands as a signal.

The dining room door opened, and Devi Bhadra, Chetwynd Millers majordomo, entered, pausing on the threshold to gaze inquiringly at the lieutenant.

“Bring it in now, Devi Bhadra,” instructed the ADC.

Devi Bhadra bowed slightly, no more than a slight gesture of the head, and withdrew.

A moment later he returned carrying before him an ornate tray on which was a box of red Indian gold with tiny glass panels in it. Through these panels everyone could see clearly a white velvet cushion on which was balanced a large red stone.

There was a silence while Devi Bhadra solemnly placed it on the table in front of the Resident and then withdrew in silence.

As the door shut behind him, almost on a signal, the company leaned toward the ornate box with gasps of surprise and envy at the perfection of the ruby that nestled tantalizingly on its cushion.

Father Cassian, who was nearest, pursed his lips and gave forth an unpriestly-like whistle. “Amazing, my dear sir. Absolutely!”

James Gregg blinked; otherwise, his stoic face showed no expression. “So this is the famous Eye of Shiva, eh? I’ll wager it has a whole history behind it?”

Royston snorted. “Damned right, Gregg. Many a person has died for that little stone there.”

“The stone, so it is said, is cursed.”

They swung round to look at the quiet Bengali. Jayram was smiling slightly. He had approved the Resident’s suggestion that if one of his guests was going to make an attempt on the jewel, it were better that the jewel be placed where everyone could see it so that such theft would be rendered virtually impossible.

“What d’you mean, eh?” snapped Sir Rupert Harvey irritably. It had become obvious during the evening that Harvey was one of those men who disliked mixing with “the natives” except on express matters of business. He was apparently not used to meeting Indians as his social equals and showed it.

It was Major Foran who answered. “The inspector—” Did he emphasize the Bengali’s rank just a little? “The inspector is absolutely right. There is a curse that goes with the stone, isn’t that right, Chetwynd?”

Lord Chetwynd Miller grinned and spread his hands. “Therein is the romance of the stone, my friends. Well, how can you have a famous stone without a history, or without a curse?”

“I believe I sense a story here,” drawled Gregg, reaching for his brandy, sniffing it before sipping gently.

“Will you tell it, sir?” encouraged Royston.

Lord Chetwynd Miller’s features bespoke that he would delight in nothing better than to tell them the story of his famous ruby—the Eye of Shiva.

“You all know that the stone is going to London as a private gift from Savaji Rao III to Her Majesty? Yesterday the stone was officially handed into my safekeeping as representative of Her Majesty. I have made the arrangements for it to be placed on the SS
Caledonia
tomorrow to be transported to London.”

“We all read the
Times of India,”
muttered Sir Rupert, but his sarcasm was ignored.

“Quite so,” Lord Chetwynd Miller said dryly. “The stone has a remarkable history. It constituted one of a pair of rubies which were the eyes of a statue of the Hindu god Shiva—”

“A god of reproduction,” chimed in Father Cassian, almost to himself. “Both benign and terrible, the male generative force of Vedic religion.”

“It is said,” went on the Resident, “that the statue stood in the ancient temple of Vira-bhadra in Betul country. It was supposedly of gold, encrusted with jewels, and its eyes were the two rubies. The story goes that during the suppression of the ‘Mutiny,’ a soldier named Colonel Vickers was sent to Betul to punish those who had taken part. He had a reputation for ruthlessness. I think he was involved with the massacre at Allahabad—”

“What was that?” demanded Gregg. “I know nothing of the history here.”

“Six thousand people, regardless of sex or age, were slaughtered at Allahabad by British troops as a reprisal,” explained Father Cassian in a quiet tone.

“The extreme ferocity with which the uprising was suppressed was born of fear,” explained Major Foran.

“Only way to treat damned rebels!” snapped Royston. “Hang a few, and the people will soon fall into line, eh?”

“In that particular case,” observed the Resident, screwing his face up in distaste, “the Sepoys who had taken part in the insurrection were strapped against the muzzles of cannons and blown apart as a lesson to others.”

“Military necessity,” snapped Major Foran, irritated by the implied criticism.

The Resident paused a moment and continued. “Well, it is said that Vickers sacked the temple of Vira-bhadra and took the rubies for himself while he ordered the rest of the statue melted down. This so enraged the local populace that they attacked Vickers and managed to reclaim the statue, taking it to a secret hiding place. Vickers was killed, and the rubies vanished. Stories permeated afterward that only one ruby was recovered by the guardians of the temple. A soldier managed to grab the other one from Vickers s dying hand. He, in his turn, was killed, and the stone had a colorful history until it found its way into the hands of the Gaekwar of Baroda.”

Inspector Ram Jayram coughed politely. “It should be pointed out,” he said slowly, “that the Gaekwar in question was not Savaji Rao III but the despot whom he overthrew a few years ago.”

The Resident nodded agreement. “The jewel was found in the Gaekwar’s collection, and Savaji Rao thought it would be a courteous gesture to send the jewel to Her Majesty as a token of his friendship.”

Gregg sat staring at the red glistening stone with pursed lips. “A history as bloody as it looks,” he muttered. “The story is that all people who claim ownership of the stone, who are not legitimate owners, meet with bad ends.”

Sir Rupert chuckled cynically as he relit his cigar. “Could be that Savaji Rao has thought of that and wants no part of the stone? Better to pass it on quickly before the curse bites!”

Lieutenant Tompkins flushed slightly, wondering whether Sir Rupert was implying some discourtesy to the Queen-Empress. He was youthful, and this was his first appointment in India. It was all new to him and perplexing, especially the cynicism about Empire that he found prevalent among his fellow veteran colonials.

“The only curse, I am told, is that there are some Hindus who wish to return the stone to the statue,” Father Cassian observed.

Sir Rupert turned to Inspector Jayram with a grin that was more a sneer. “Is that so? Do you feel that the stone should belong back in the statue? You’re a Hindu, aren’t vou?”

Jayram returned the gaze of the businessman and smiled politely. “I am a Hindu, yes. Father Cassian refers to the wishes of a sect called the Vira-bhadra, whose temple the stone was taken from. They are worshippers of Shiva in his role of the wrathful avenger and herdsman of souls. For them he wears a necklace of skulls and a garland of snakes. He is the malevolent destroyer. I am not part of their sect.”

Sir Rupert snorted as if in cynical disbelief. “A Hindu is a Hindu,” he sneered.

“Ah, so?” Inspector Jayram did not appear in the least put out by the obvious insult. “I presume that you are a Christian, Sir Rupert?”

“Of course!” snapped the man. “What has that to do with anything?”

“Then, doubtless, you pay allegiance to the Bishop of Rome as Holy Father of the Universal Church?”

“Of course not… I am an Anglican,” growled Sir Rupert.

Jayram continued to smile blandly. “But a Christian is a Christian. Is this not so, Sir Rupert?”

Sir Rupert reddened as Father Cassian exploded in laughter. “He has you there,” he chuckled as his mirth subsided a little.

Jayram turned with an appreciative smile. “I believe that it was one of your fourth-century saints and martyrs of Rome, Pelagius, who said that labels are devices for saving people the trouble of thinking. Pelagius was the great friend of Augustine of Hippo, wasn’t he?”

Father Cassian smiled brightly and inclined his head. “You have a wide knowledge, Inspector.”

Sir Rupert growled angrily and was about to speak when Lord Chetwynd Miller interrupted. “It is true that the story of the curse emanated from the priests of the sect of Vira-bhadra, who continue to hunt for the stone.”

Royston lit a fresh cheroot. He preferred them to the cigars provided by their host.

“Well, it is an extraordinary stone. Would it be possible for me to handle it, Your Excellency?”

The Resident smiled indulgently. “It will be the last chance. When it gets to London, it will doubtless be locked away in the royal collection.”