The Faraway Drums (39 page)

The pavilion where the King was to be acclaimed Emperor stood in the middle of the vast concourse, topped by a golden dome and with steps leading up to it. There, the royal couple would be visible to most of the great assemblage and the King an ideal target for anyone with a high-powered rifle. But first their majesties had to receive homage from the princes and so they made their way to a tented canopy where the exalted traffic would be easier to handle as it passed before the King and Queen. The couple were preceded by Indian attendants carrying peacock fans, yaks’ tails and golden maces. The escort came from the 10th Hussars and the Imperial Cadet Corps; the heavy purple trains of the royal pair were carried by ten pages, the young sons of Indian rulers. Out beyond the crowd a hundred-and-one guns boomed the royal salute; ladies in the crowd jumped at each reverberation and several princes in the waiting line sighed as they considered their own meagre gun salutes. The King, who throughout his life had occasionally been troubled by bouts of modesty, now began to be convinced of his own majesty, or at least that of his throne.

Bridie, seated with Lady Westbrook and the Farnol family, was busily scribbling notes for her story. She was thrilled by the spectacle, knew she would never see the like of it again; she made a note comparing it with the drab Inauguration of President Taft, then scratched it out. Neo-imperialists were not
encouraged
on the staff of the
Globe
.

“It was worth all that dreadful trip from Simla.” Lady Westbrook was wearing another new dress, one that gave her more leg-room than her hobble-skirt. She also had a new hat with a large bouquet of artificial roses on the crown, and a bright pink parasol; she blocked the view of those sitting immediately behind her but she looked so regal that no one dared to complain. She lit a cheroot, obscuring the view still further. “I think I shall shut my mind to any memories after this. This is enough for the rest of my days.”

Bridie reached for her hand, pressed it. “I shall never forget it, either.”

She wanted to tell Clive the same thing, but he was not in this stand with her and Lady Westbrook and his family. He was on duty with George Lathrop, wearing his uniform as an officer of Farnol’s Horse but playing his role as political agent. He and Colonel Lathrop stood on the edge of a group of senior officers to one side of the canopy where the King was about to receive the princes and chieftains.

“Have you checked that all our friends are here?” said Lathrop.

“It’s not possible, George. There’s so much confusion down at the tail end. But I’ve seen Sankar—he’s here.”

“There’s a rumour that Baroda’s up to something.”

“Good Christ, you don’t think he’s—?”

“He’d never attempt what we’re talking about—” They were speaking in very low voices. The brass around them would be happier in their ignorance, the safest state of mind for generals in peacetime. Lathrop had no confidence in his superiors. “If he’s involved at all, he’ll leave the actual killing to some lesser chap.”

Farnol looked around, scanning the huge crowd. The closest were the four thousand special guests and it was hardly likely that any one of them would be the assassin. But behind them were 70,000 other spectators, the middle class of India: the British, the
chee-chees
and the educated Indians who, if they did not run the country, kept it running. Still further behind them were what the journalists would describe as the populace. The
maidan
where the Durbar was being held was a great flat expanse, but mounds had been built at strategic points to give certain sections of the huge crowd a view. The mounds also provided an ideal position from which a sniper, if he could surround himself with enough accomplices as camouflage, would be able to draw a bead on the King when he mounted the steps to the gold-domed pavilion. But for
the
present the King was safe under his canopy where he was about to receive the ruling princes.

The line began to move forward. The new Nizam of Hyderabad, the premier ruler, was the first to pay homage. Still in mourning for his father, the man who had died of a surfeit of alcohol and wives, he wore a plain black suit but topped it with a yellow turban with a diamond aigrette. He moved on and was succeeded by other princes. Farnol, now watching the line, lost his concentration for a moment as he fell under the spell of the splendour. The spectrum of princes, even if out-shone by the King, dazzled with their magnificence; a river of silks stretched away down the long line; gems blazed as if their wearers dripped with a priceless liquid. Farnol saw the Nawab of Bhawalpore, a mere child, standing in line, shining like a glittering doll. Further down the line he could see the chieftains from Siam and Burma, their pagoda-like head-dresses bright as twists of gold in the sun. Pride overcame worry for the moment; he was overwhelmed at being part of such an Empire. Oh God, he thought, echoing Bridie, it must never come to an end! But even in his head the echo was hollow.

“Holy Christ!” Lathrop couldn’t keep his voice down; the generals looked at him as if he were some fervent chaplain. “Look at Baroda!”

The Gaekwar of Baroda must have been missing from the line when Farnol had inspected it; or, amidst the splendour of the other princes, Farnol had missed him. The ruler of Baroda was making some sort of protest that for the moment escaped the puzzled and aghast crowd. He wore no silk and no jewellery, though he was one of the richest princes in India; he was dressed in the plain white linen dress of a Mahratta and he carried a walking stick instead of a sword. Farnol guessed at the purpose of the protest: Baroda, more than any of the other rulers, had fought for his independent authority. But he had chosen the wrong moment to protest: he had insulted the King and the protocol-minded Anglo-Indians would never forgive him.

“H.E. will kill him for that!” Lathrop had dropped his voice: it was a positive hiss now.

“Possibly,” said Farnol. “But that eliminates him from our suspects. He wouldn’t try something like that if he were in our plot. It would be too much of a link—”

Lathrop subsided, took out his monocle, which had clouded, and wiped it. He put it back in and said, “There’s Bertie.”

“We’re safe,” said Farnol, watching the resplendent figure of the Nawab, his coat and turban in
his
MCC colours, bow before the King and Queen. “He’s never going to put a blot on those colours.”

“There’s Sankar. He’s the bugger to watch—”

The Rajah of Pandar, who hated ostentation, had been tempted to appear in the brown robes he wore when he made his retreats to the monasteries in the mountains. Then he had learned what Baroda planned to do and he knew, taking into account his own low precedence to that of Baroda, that his own protest would be dismissed as a cheap imitation of that of the senior prince. So he had compromised, had worn a simple
achkan
in dark blue silk and a small diamond in the aigrette that adorned his dark blue turban. His bow to the King was stiff, almost perfunctory, but it sufficed and he passed on beyond the royal couple and disappeared into the crowd behind them.

Lathrop let out a soft sigh of relief. “That’s him out of the way, thank Christ.”

Farnol was running his eye down the rest of the line, no longer aware of the magnificence of costumes and jewels, only looking for faces. “Where’s Mala?”

“She should be there—”

“She’s not—” Then he saw the tall slim figure in pale blue silk, his chest ablaze with what looked like a breast-plate of diamonds. “Good God, look at Mahendra!”

IV

Prince Mahendra had woken to the last day of his life with a drowsy feeling of elation. In her own tent his half-sister the Ranee had woken with the same feeling, though for a different reason. She had looked at the still sleeping form of the young Bengal Lancer beside her and wondered if she should have him seconded to her as an adviser on a permanent basis or at least till she grew tired of him. The Government might ask on what grounds he could possibly act as an adviser, but she knew one or two or three or four in the upper echelons and she could depend on them to put the question aside if it came up. The subaltern was a bright boy and he could be seconded to her for experience in Indian matters.

She shook him awake. “Darling boy. You must be off—”

“Shall I see you tonight?”

She couldn’t remember if she had promised tonight to Mayne’s Horse or the King’s entourage. Probably the equerry, it being the King’s night. “Not tonight. I am going into
purdah
.”

“
Whatever for?”

“Rest, darling boy. Now be off. You must look your best when you trot past the King in the parade today.”

Mahendra, coming out of his own tent, saw the young Bengal Lancer leaving. He had known of Mala’s visitors each night, but he had swallowed his disgust and anger: her punishment would come at the proper time. But this morning it was as if he were drugged, as if he were walking on a high wire stretched between dull sanity and the exultation of martyrdom. He did not think of himself as religious; he was not a mystic. This morning he burned with self-righteousness: what he was about to do today would be the beginning of the cleansing of India.

The Ranee, aware that tent flaps did not keep in the sounds of ecstasy as did thick palace doors, had dismissed the big Sikh who had been her bodyguard; the last thing she wanted guarded with her present diversions was her body. The young subaltern came out of the tent, certain that he wouldn’t be observed. Then he saw Mahendra. For a moment he hesitated out of English politeness, then he scuttled away like all lovers who have to leave before the neighbours are up. Mahendra did not go after him, but strode across to the Ranee’s tent and barged in. Naked, the first and only time he had seen her like that, she sat up and stared at him.

“You might have knocked, Bobs.” Which, even in her surprise at seeing him, she knew would have been difficult on a canvas flap.

“You filthy fornicating whore!”

The look in his eyes rather than his words suddenly made her pull the sheet up about her. “Get out!”

But he was beyond taking orders from her or even from himself. His hatred of her and her libertine sexuality became itself sexual; he fell on her as a rapist might have. His hands clutched the throat that wore no jewels this morning; she fought more furiously than she had ever struggled in love-making; but he killed her in an orgasm of blind mad hatred that left him sprawled on her as a hundred lovers had been.

It was almost five minutes before his brain cleared and he sat up.

He looked at her coldly, as a man does who has made love without love. He was sane now; or at least sane enough to be cunningly practical. He turned the Ranee on her side, pulled the black hair down
over
the bruised throat, then he drew the sheet up round her shoulders. She looked as if she were asleep, which indeed she was, if the poets are to be believed.

He stood up but did not say goodbye to her even in his mind; there was no point in remembering her since he himself would soon be dead. He went out of the tent and met a bearer bringing tea in a silver pot.

“The Ranee is sleeping. She was not well during the night, but she is sleeping now and she is not to be disturbed.”

“Not even for the Durbar?”

“She will not be going to the Durbar. I shall look in on her myself later. But no one is to disturb her—tell Mohammed to see that no one goes into her tent. Just let her sleep.”

But he sat in a chair outside his own tent to make sure that no one disobeyed the instructions; he knew as well as anyone how inquisitive servants could be. Mohammed, the butler, came to enquire after his mistress’s health and went away promising to keep the small camp quiet. Then it was time for Mahendra to dress for the Coronation.

He dressed alone, dismissing his personal bearer. He put the jewelled dagger into the belt beneath his
achkan
; he had decided against carrying a sword which might hinder him as he plunged towards the King. He looked at himself in the full-length mirror that had been brought from Serog; but something was missing.
He
was the ruler of Serog now, if only for another hour or two; but who would know? Then he knew what was needed to identify him.

He went across to Mala’s tent, went in, loosely lacing the flap behind him in case some busybody servant tried to follow him. He did not look at the body in the bed: she no longer existed. He went to the large brass-bound jewel-case on the portable dressing-table, opened it and gazed at the treasure it contained. He had no idea of its value; his madness had never run to dreams of wealth. He rummaged through the case, spilling pearls, diamonds, rubies, emeralds, his fingers insensitive to them; Mala had handled them sensuously, as if they were sex objects. He took out the diamond breastplate, put it on and went out of the tent without even a glance at himself in the long mirror opposite Mala’s bed. He was not interested in how he looked this morning. The diamond adornment, which certain people would recognize, was worn only to show that for an hour at least on this last day of his life he had taken Mala’s place, was the Ruler of Serog.

He
had been gone an hour, was trying to find Mala’s place in the procession’s order of precedence before it began to move forward towards the King, when the Ranee’s maidservant, ignoring the butler’s orders, went into her mistress’s tent to see if she was ill enough to need a doctor. A moment later she came running out screaming.

Mohammed, the grey-haired butler, took over at once. He had served the family for fifty years; crises were part of the housekeeping. He regretted the death of the Ranee, but he had never felt any affection for her. He felt no grief or shock; when you have served a half-mad master for as long as he had served Mahendra, you come to expect the unexpected. He sent a bearer to bring the police.

Then, knowing who the murderer was and where he was at that moment, he sent another bearer to tell Major Farnol. Like all butlers he knew all the secrets of the household: or at least those between the Ranee and Mahendra; and he knew that Major Farnol, once the Ranee’s lover, had had Mahendra under observation. He did not know what Prince Mahendra planned to do, but he knew the madman should not represent Serog at this morning’s Coronation.