Keeping Bad Company (24 page)

‘Stay on deck, Libby. Call down to us if you see anybody rowing out.'

It wasn't likely. We'd have known by now if there were anybody following us. Still, I didn't argue. I waited until their steps were echoing in the hold, then went halfway down the flight of steps and sat there. I knew that Tom wanted to spare me the sight of what they expected to find in the chest and was grateful.

‘In the corner here.'

Amos's voice. The lamp shone on the back of the chest, plain wood. Tabby had been horribly right about the size of it: just big enough. Tom and Amos were staring at the other side. They seemed puzzled. Perhaps it was locked and they'd need to break it open. Then Tom bent down and pulled at something. The sound was unexpectedly domestic, like a dressing table drawer being opened. I stood up and went down the steps to join them. It was a drawer, and they were staring at something inside it. The whole thing was a rough-looking two-drawer chest, with lettering in Chinese characters painted over it. The drawer Tom had pulled open was divided into ten compartments. Each compartment contained something round and pale, about the size of a large cooking apple. At first I thought they might be cannon balls, until Tom lifted one out and it was obviously much lighter. He seemed to recognize it. A scale fell off it and settled on the floor.

‘Opium.'

His voice echoed round the hold. Absently, I picked up the scale. It was a petal, withered and silvery.

‘Poppy petal,' Tom said. ‘It's what they wrap it in.'

‘That whole ball, opium?'

‘All twenty of them.'

He put it back in its compartment, shut the drawer and slid open the lower one. Just the same, ten petal-wrapped spheres each nestling snugly in its own compartment.

‘It's how they export it from India to China,' Tom said. ‘It's sold by the chest, like this, hundreds of chests to a shipment.'

Amos picked up one of the spheres and turned it gently in his hand, as if he expected it to hatch into something.

‘How much would this lot be worth then?'

Tom considered. ‘Five hundred pounds. Perhaps more. I'm not an expert.'

‘So this came from India?'

‘Certainly. Look, there's the Company's mark. It means the contents of the chest are guaranteed pure.'

‘But why bring it here? And why take it all the way out to Richmond and back?' I said.

Amos, replacing the ball of opium, said they'd want to look after it at that price, but Tom seemed almost as puzzled as I was.

‘I agree, Libby. The Chinese may have banned opium but it's perfectly legal in this country. Anybody could bring in a hundred chests like this, if he wanted to. But why send it here when it's nearer and more profitable to run it into China?'

‘But would they have to pay duty to bring it in?' I said. ‘Suppose somebody's trying to set up an English smuggling trade in case China is closed to them.'

Tom considered. ‘You might even be right, Libby. But would the likes of McPherson risk whatever reputation they have here? They're smugglers half a world away, but gentlemen in England.'

‘It might not be anything to do with him. Suppose your Brahmin and his friends are acting on their own account.'

‘So have they smuggled in a whole shipload?'

We all three of us considered the chest.

‘This might be by way of a tradesman's case of samples,' Amos commented.

We looked round the rest of the hold before we left, but it was as empty as the inside of a cello. Going down the rope ladder was considerably worse than going up, but we made it safely to the timber jetty. Tom tied up the hired boat there, as promised, and we went back to the clarence. With nobody to hold the horse at this time of night, Amos had hitched the reins to the fence. It had bothered him, but the cob had scarcely moved. We'd been travelling for some time before Tom spoke.

‘If you're right about the opium smuggling, Griffiths would have been furious if he found out.'

‘Even if it was Indians doing it? He might see it as appropriate revenge for the British foisting the poppy on India.'

‘I'm sure he wouldn't have seen it that way.'

‘So if Mr Griffiths found out somehow and tried to stop it, that might have been a reason for killing him?'

Tom didn't answer, but I knew he must be thinking, as I was, about that late-night visit by the Indian gentleman. We dropped him off at Mr Tillington's house, where he was staying. The attack on the old man hadn't been repeated, but Tom said he was still shaken. He was sorry to have left him alone so long. Tom promised to come to Abel Yard in the morning. There were no lights showing in the house, so Amos and I said we'd wait while he made sure that all was well inside. He was to signify it by waving a candle at the window of his room on the first floor. He let himself in with his key. A few minutes later the candle moved from side to side and we went slowly on our way, the horse as tired as we were. I'd asked Amos to draw up outside the gateway to Abel Yard, so as not to wake anybody inside. It was nearly midnight by then. He got off the box to help me down.

‘Excuse me.'

Even Amos jumped with surprise, a thing I should not have credited if I hadn't been standing so close to him. The white figure seemed to have materialized out of nowhere.

‘Have I the honour of speaking to Miss Lane?'

The pronunciation of the words was correct and precise, only the rhythm distinguishing him from a native English speaker. It was the Indian gentleman. Amos stepped between us.

‘What do you think you're doing?'

The man's words were muffled by the bulk of Amos, but he went on speaking to me as if Amos weren't there.

‘I should very much appreciate an opportunity to talk to you and your brother.'

Although my heart was thumping, I knew we couldn't miss this chance.

‘And we should very much appreciate a chance to talk to you,' I said, trying to keep my voice calm. ‘Only, not now.'

‘Indeed. When do you suggest?'

‘There's a reservoir pond in the park, near Grosvenor Gate. Do you know it?'

‘Yes, I know it.'

‘We'll be there at midday tomorrow.'

‘Very well. Thank you.'

Then he was gone as suddenly as he'd arrived.

‘Well, that's a turn-up,' Amos said, restored to his usual calm. He walked with me to the foot of my staircase. ‘I'll wait out there till I'm sure that one's out of the way.'

I wondered how the man had known where I lived, or that Tom was my brother. I told Amos there was no need to worry, but it was comforting to look down from my room at his dark shape standing at the horse's head. I was more than half asleep by the time the clarence rolled away.

H
e was waiting for us, an upright figure in pale clothes beside the reservoir pond, apparently oblivious of curious glances from Sunday morning strollers in the park. When we came near him he put the palms of his hands together and bowed his head, a gesture mirrored by Tom. I'd agreed that Tom should do the talking. He knew India, after all.

‘It seems you know who we are, sir,' Tom said. ‘You have the advantage of us.'

‘Jaswant Patwardhan, at your service. I wish I had known you intended to visit our boat. I could have offered you better hospitality. And more convenient ingress.'

His voice and manner were entirely serious, but there was a glint in his dark eyes. Tom was floundering in surprise and embarrassment, so I took a hand.

‘We were looking for a boy,' I said.

He looked at me, assessing.

‘Any boy in particular, Miss Lane?'

‘His name is Anil. He worked for Mr Griffiths.'

Tom was annoyed with me for stepping in, but it had given him time to recover and take up the conversation as we'd planned.

‘Mr Patwardhan, I assure you that we do not intend to pry into your activities, but Mr Griffiths was a good friend of mine and I owe him a duty to find out what I can about how he died.'

‘Will that give him life again?'

The glint was still there, but Mr Patwardhan's question seemed serious rather than mocking.

‘In our country, taking your own life is considered dishonourable,' Tom said. ‘Isn't it right to try to protect a friend's honour?'

A nod of the turbaned head conceded the point.

‘You came to his funeral,' Tom said. ‘Was that out of respect for him?'

‘Respect was due to him.'

‘Was he a friend of yours?'

‘I met him only recently. But he was a friend of a very good friend of mine.'

‘Was one of the times you met him the Saturday before he was found dead?' I asked.

I could see Tom was annoyed with me for butting in, but at this rate Mr Patwardhan and Tom would go on exchanging careful courtesies until the pigeons roosted. Mr Patwardhan turned to me, not seeming at all put out by the question.

‘Yes, that is so.'

‘Why did you go to see him?'

The silence that followed my question wasn't discourteous. Mr Patwardhan was considering. In the course of it I noticed a tall groom on a bay cob giving a riding lesson to a boy on a pony. He had the pony on a leading rein. Amos had said nothing about keeping close by when we met the Indian gentleman, but I wasn't surprised to see him. Mr Patwardhan made up his mind.

‘If you would condescend to take a short journey with me, I shall be better able to answer your questions.'

He raised a hand. Although he wasn't even looking in its direction, a plain carriage that had been waiting further up the ride came towards us. I recognized it as the livery stable vehicle from Richmond. When it stopped beside us, Mr Patwardhan politely opened the door and got in behind us. As soon as we'd sat down, and without further directions being given, the carriage turned round the reservoir, trotted northwards up the ride, then headed west along the upper boundary of the park. Looking out from the window, I saw Amos and the pony cutting across the grass to keep up with us, his pupil getting a probably premature lesson in trotting. After a few minutes we stopped by a grove of trees. Mr Patwardhan had his hand out to help me to the ground. Usually it would have been an unnecessary courtesy, but this time it was just as well because I nearly fell backwards into the coach in surprise at what was there. A ray of sunshine had come out between clouds like a light in a pantomime and was illuminating a scene from the east that had somehow been picked up and transported to Hyde Park.

The trees, in pale young leaf, were what English trees always were. A small flock of sheep grazed on the far side of the grove. Barouches and phaetons with people out for a Sunday morning airing went gliding past only yards away. But here, on the edge of the trees, was a pavilion like something from a fairy tale or, at the very least, a shelter for fine ladies at the most aristocratic sort of picnic. The fabric was royal blue, embroidered with silver stars. The flaps of the pavilion were turned back, revealing a lining of paler silk. A small pennant in silver, black and blue flapped from the top of the pavilion in the breeze. Further off, on the far side of the grove, a plain
fourgon
carriage was resting on its shafts, proving at least that this splendour had arrived by mortal means. Mr Patwardhan walked up to the pavilion and stood aside, indicating that Tom and I should go first. The entrance was high enough to walk in without stooping. Inside, the light was dim, sun filtered through layers of silk. The air was full of a strange, spicy smell. At first I could see nothing. It must have been the same for Tom, standing beside me. I was aware that there was at least one person inside the pavilion, and that he or she must be getting a good view of us while we were at a disadvantage. Then a throaty chuckle, unmistakeably female: ‘Welcome. Won't you sit down, please.'

The first thing I saw were the eyes, gleaming like a tiger's out of the dark. The voice, with a strong Indian accent, had come from waist height. Gradually I made out a figure sitting on a pile of cushions, leaning against a kind of carved bedhead, comfortable as a cat. The folds of her sari spread round her like water. Green and red jewels glowed on her fingers in the dim light. Nearer us, on a carpet, were carved stools with cushions, designed to be folded up and carried as camp chairs, but richly carved and gilded. I sat and so did Tom. Mr Patwardhan stood between us and the tent flap. As my eyes adjusted to the dim light I saw that the woman's face was sharp, skin stretched tight over prominent cheekbones, creased round the mouth and eyes, but the eyes themselves were as large and bright as a girl's. They moved unblinkingly from Tom to me. There was a challenge in them.

‘You're Mr Griffiths's princess,' I said.

It had come to me that second and there was no time to think whether it was wise to say it or not. It was partly the setting and the way she was sitting, but more than that. Since reading Mr Griffiths's story, the woman at the centre of it had stayed in my mind. Beautiful, of course, but daring and ruthless as well. She'd have had to be, to plot on such a grand scale. There'd been cruelty there too in the way she used people. I'd seen all of those things when this woman looked at me, but then she hadn't been trying to hide them. Behind me, Mr Patwardhan shifted his weight, surprised. Tom was looking at me as if I'd gone mad.

‘I was many people's princess,' she said.

I tried to keep looking at her as steadily as she was looking at me.

‘Why have you come here?' I said.

‘He will explain.' She gestured towards Mr Patwardhan and added, ‘He's what you might call my prime minister.'

It was ridiculous, of course. She had no country to rule. Even in Mr Griffiths's account, her estate was no more than a castle, servants and animals, and it would almost certainly have dwindled rather than grown. And yet it didn't seem ridiculous. Even here in a foreign country she was creating her own setting. Meeting in some ordinary room might have diminished her, so she kept court in a tent in the park. Mr Patwardhan spoke from behind us.