Jani and the Greater Game (The Multiplicity Series Book 1) (25 page)

Jani returned the nicety and hurried into the shadows of the store.

She found the clothing department and, for the next thirty minutes, worked to calm her nerves as she selected undergarments and a crimson shalwar kameez. The sales assistant attempted to interest her in a green sari which she said would complement the deep brown of her eyes. Jani smiled at the thought of fleeing through the jungle garbed in a flowing sari, and insisted on the more functional shalwar kameez. She changed into it, then stared at herself in a full-length mirror. It was the first time in five years she had worn Indian clothing, and the silk felt cool and comfortable against her skin.

She next bought toiletries in the same store, and a medium-sized valise in which to carry her purchases.

She would pay for the items and then find a tea room nearby, where she would take lunch and while away an hour before setting off to rendezvous with Anand at a pre-arranged meeting place in the hills. Thinking of the boy, she considered his ragged shorts and old shirt. She made a detour to the men’s department and bought two pairs of shorts and two smart white shirts. It occurred to her that a map of the area might come in useful, and minutes later found a large-scale map of Uttarakhand.

She paid for her purchases and paused before the exit. The sunlight dazzled, and Jani thought of the police airship heading for the airyard. It would have landed by now, and disgorged its complement of officers intent on tracking her down.

She told herself she was being paranoid and plunged into the heat of the Indian day.

Across the street from the department store was the Oxford Tea Rooms, and she was about to cross towards it when she noticed, close by, the little English parson she had almost skittled earlier. He was leaning against a lamp post, a look of pain creasing his features as he reached down to massage his ankle.

He caught her gaze and winced a smile. “What did I say? Miles away! I was in such a hurry I missed a step and turned my dashed ankle – my Achilles’ heel, don’t you know? Old rugby injury.”

“Can I...?” Jani began.

“I can hardly put any weight on the dashed thing,” he explained, “and as my rooms are only just around the corner, I wonder if...”

Jani said unsurely, “Yes?”

“If you might possibly assist me to my room. It would be capital if you could. As I said, it’s just around the corner. What a dashed nuisance!”

“But...” she began. She looked up and down the street, and at that second a policeman came striding around the corner. “It’s no trouble at all,” she said hurriedly; what could be better cover than playing the helpmate of a distressed English parson?

She took the young man’s arm and assisted him as he hobbled, exclaiming in pain with every other step, along the pavement and around the corner to the Passmore Guest House.

A clanking lift carried them to the first floor and an old-fashioned suite of rooms with a balcony overlooking the main street. She helped him across to the verandah and into a rattan chair, and was about to take her leave when he said, “I’m most grateful for your help.” He held out a small, podgy hand. “The Reverend Lionel Carstairs, by the way.”

She thought fast, took the proffered hand in hers, and said, “Sita Nagar.”

“I wonder...” he said. “I was about to take tea. It would be awfully pleasant if you’d consent to join me. I could have a tray sent up...”

She glanced at her watch. She had more than an hour to fill before she rendezvoused with Anand, and what better way to spend it than in the privacy of the parson’s rooms, away from the prying eyes of the police?

“That would be most pleasant,” she said. She noticed a bell-pull on the wall of the main room, stepped from the verandah and summoned service. Next to the hearth was a chest, its great lid standing open. She noticed that it was empty, and it struck her as odd that such a small man should possess such a vast travelling chest.

The servant arrived in due course and took their order for Earl Grey. Jani sat in the shade of the verandah across from the parson.

When their tea arrived, he poured. “If you don’t mind my observing, Miss Nagar, your English is excellent.”

She smiled and sipped her tea. She had often received the same compliment in England, the words always couched in the tone of someone expecting her to speak the King’s English with an accent – or not at all.

“That’s because, Reverend, I was educated in England, and just this past month took up my place to study at Cambridge.”

The parson hid his surprise well. “Cambridge, no less. Well, well... But what brings you back to India, if I might enquire?”

She considered her reply before saying, “The passing of a close relative.”

His face folded into lines of concern. Jani thought him no older than thirty, the typical parochial product of middle England, perhaps the third son of a prosperous businessman whose other sons had gone into law and the army. She had met many of their like in London, well-bred young gentlemen who oozed superiority and considered her something of an exotic specimen.

“I’m sorry to hear that, Miss Nagar. I can only say that I hope you find comfort and solace in the tenets of whichever belief...”

She interrupted him. “My father brought me up in a strictly secular household, Reverend Carstairs, an upbringing which the boarding school I attended in Surrey failed to dilute.”

The Reverend smiled above his Earl Grey. If he was shocked, he failed to show it. “I take it that you are an atheist, Miss Nagar?”

“But whatever gave you that idea, Reverend? There very well might be a god, or a creator or whatever you might wish to call it – but that does not necessarily mean to say that any of the world’s many religions can lay claim to represent him, her, or it.”

The parson blinked. She could almost see the gears shift in his mentation, as if he were one of Mr Clockwork’s automata, as he re-evaluated his assessment of the young woman sipping tea across from him.

“An interesting conceit,” he said. “Your father must have been a remarkable man to have brought up such a strong-willed daughter.”

“Indeed he was,” she said, and was struck by a sudden and aching melancholy.

“And what brings you to Dehrakesh?” the parson said.

“I have friends in the area, whom I wish to see before returning to England to take up my studies.”

He sipped his tea. “In what field, if I might ask?”

“Medicine. I hope, one day, to become a surgeon.”

His eyes lost their focus, and he murmured something to himself, which Jani thought might have been
remarkable
. “My own father was a vicar, Miss Nagar, and he always wanted me to follow him into the profession.”

“He must be pleased that you obliged,” she said.

His eyes refocused and he stared at Jani as if in confusion. “What? Oh – oh, yes, of course! There I was, miles away again.”

She finished her tea and placed the cup and saucer upon the table. “Thank you for the tea, Reverend. I have enjoyed our little conversation.” She consulted her wristwatch. “And now, if you’ll excuse me...”

He set aside his own cup and saucer. “I wonder if you would be so good as to do me one last small favour?” he said. “You will find a small vial of malaria tablets on the mantel-shelf. I wonder if you would be so good as to fetch them for me?”

She smiled. “Not at all.”

She rose and stepped back into the room, crossed to the mantel-shelf and looked for the pill bottle among the many oddments and knick-knacks. As she was reaching out for the small brown vial, she was aware of movement behind her. She turned to find the Reverend Carstairs approaching from across the room.

He gave a sickly smile, and Jani saw that he had broken out in a sweat; perspiration beaded his round face. Also, he was no longer limping...

“Ah,” he said, “those are the ones.”

“Then here you are,” she said, passing him the pills. “And I will be wishing you a good day.”

“Ah... one moment, Miss Nagar. I wonder if I might have your opinion of this little watercolour I made the other day...” And he reached out to the mantel-shelf, his movement forcing her to step back so that her legs pressed up against the open travelling trunk.

In a fraction of a second she was aware of several facts: there was no watercolour on the shelf, the trunk was open to receive her, and the Reverend Carstairs was moving to push her into it.

She cried out and ducked under his outstretched hands. In desperation she dodged behind the parson and pushed him in the back. He gave a startled cry and pitched forward, tripping headfirst into the trunk. He struggled upright, floundering like a vaudeville comedy act, and Jani obliged by dashing forward, grabbing hold of the lid, and bringing it down on his head. He cried out and disappeared under its weight, and she lost no time in flipping over the brass hasp and securing the Reverend Carstairs – or whoever he might be – within the trunk.

She stared at the trunk in horror as his muffled cries and thumpings issued from within. So his twisted ankle, his invitation to tea, had all been an act to imprison her in the chest; in which, with wonderful irony, he now found himself.

But at whose behest was he working? The obvious answer, considering his nationality, was the British – but that did not necessarily follow. For all she knew he might be an agent of the Russians, or even the Chinese... Of one thing she was certain: by some means he had traced her here, and there was always the possibility that he was not working alone. In which case others beside himself would be aware of her presence.

She tamped down her panic; she had to think clearly and assess the situation. She had to get away from the hotel as quickly as possible, and not by the main entrance which for all she knew might be under surveillance. Once outside she would hasten to where she was due to meet Anand.

She remembered to pick up her bag as she left the room, the parson’s muted entreaties sounding in her wake. As she hurried down the staircase, it came to her that Carstairs and his cohorts, having traced her so far, might be aware of her involvement with Anand. Might they have the warehouse under observation too, and be waiting for his emergence upon the back of the mechanical elephant?

In the foyer, she turned from the entrance and hurried towards the back of the building, past a potted aspidistra, brass-framed mirrors and a drawing room full of guests reading the daily papers.

She felt a warm breeze and turned down a passage which she guessed gave onto a rear entrance. She came to an open door and hurried through, then turned left and sprinted, thinking that it was as well she was wearing a shalwar kameez and not a sari – or a European dress – as she tore down the alley.

She came to the main street and barrelled into a portly Sikh, bounced off him and almost tripped into the path of a passing water buffalo. Rolling along its bulging flank, her singular locomotion commented upon by a knot of laughing rickshaw-wallahs, she regained her balance and slowed to a sedate walk. Aware of a hundred staring eyes, she pushed her way through the crowd towards the far side of the street, then turned a corner and drew a relieved breath.

She would gain her bearings and make for the rendezvous point with Anand – but would not show herself immediately. She would observe his arrival, attempt to discern if he were being followed, and only when she had reassured herself that he had not inadvertently led the British to her would she show herself.

She felt calmer now, having marshalled her thoughts and devised a plan of action. Her father would have been proud.

She passed through a marketplace piled with a hundred different multi-coloured fruits and vegetables and, across the square, made out the peeling stucco frontage of the railway station. She glanced at her wristwatch. It was still only fifteen minutes to eleven. With luck, Anand had yet to leave the warehouse with the mechanical elephant.

She hurried past the station. As she turned the corner and stared down the street, she saw the great double doors of the warehouse part like the exit of an aircraft hangar and the magnificent clockwork pachyderm, its brass cogs and bejewelled ornamentation scintillating in the sun, trundle into view.

On its back, seated like a tiny monkey, was Anand.

The great elephant plodded along the street, bringing traffic to a halt as drivers stopped and stared, and attracting a gaggle of curious onlookers. Following at a safe distance, Jani scanned the crowds for any sign of the police or army. So far as she could make out, all the onlookers were civilian Indians. She willed Anand to gain speed and leave the city as fast as possible – a forlorn hope as this negligent, lazy amble appeared to be the elephant’s top speed.

In due course Anand and his charge left the town in their wake, heading for the wooded hills that surrounded Dehrakesh. The crowds thinned; the small boys who had followed the elephant through the streets, whooping and yelling, fell away. Jani followed a hundred yards behind, keeping to the shadows and constantly looking over her shoulder for the first sign of pursuers.

The elephant plodded on, taking the road that climbed from the town in its careful, world-weary gait. As Jani followed, she marvelled at how lifelike the mechanical beast appeared; it was a construction of brass and metal, cogs and pulleys, and yet it moved with all the stolid imperturbability of an aged bull elephant.