The Maharajah's Monkey (6 page)

“Pull yourself together, Isaac,” I said. “Why don't you do some inventing? Something to cure Miss Minchin would be a godsend.” For our governess was a fellow sufferer from seasickness.

“I'm done with inventing,” he moaned melodramatically. “I will never invent anything, ever again!”

If you have ever contemplated a steamer voyage to
India, I beg you, do not. Your
idea
of the long journey to Bombay and the
reality
are, I am sure, very different. You may imagine a riot of shipboard entertainments: bowling and croquet in the afternoons, dances and theatricals in the evening, glittering saloons and bracing walks on deck with the captain. Most of all you may imagine sumptuous meals in the first-class dining rooms, with twinkling chandeliers and a menu that does
not
feature salt beef and more salt beef.

Pray do not get carried away!

In reality, life aboard the
Himalaya
was the last word in dullness. All the bores in England seemed to have flocked to our ship, the ladies being far worse than the men. I have never, ever, met such a stuffy, interfering lot. They would no sooner spot me than they would start spouting lectures. My insufficiently brushed hair, my dirty fingernails, my unladylike dresses, my forthright manner, my shabby shoes. There was almost nothing about Kit Salter that found favor with these memsahibs, the wives of tea planters and junior officials of our government in India. As far as they were concerned, I would let down the whole British Raj.

It almost made me long for the times when I only had Miss Minchin to nag me.

Before I go any further you may be wondering how I came to be aboard ship at all. Hadn't Father specifically
forbidden it? Well, it may not surprise you that poor Papa, confronted by the combined forces of Aunt Hilda and myself, gave way and consented to our voyage. In fact, it turned out he was keen to travel to India himself, for he had heard of a remarkable archaeological discovery he wanted to track down. So my friends and I sailed east, for it was not hard to persuade Rachel and Isaac's absentminded guardian and Waldo's spiritually inclined mother. Indeed Waldo's mother began to trot out all sorts of romantic mumbo-jumbo on hearing of our trip, including the hope that her son would find “enlightenment” in India.

Frankly, I was dying to reach Bombay. Dark clouds were looming over the horizon and the waters were choppy. It looked like we were in for some bad weather. Leaning over the upper deck watching the waves, I spotted a bowls game below in the third-class deck. I made my way down, when the worst of the busybodies, Mrs. Spragg, appeared. Clearly, she had pursued me to the lower deck.

“Quite out of the question,” she declared loudly. Behind her I spotted the whey-faced figure of her son Edwin and behind him their inevitable guards. It seemed there was no school or tutor in the whole of England good enough for darling Edwin, so Mrs. Spragg had decided to take him back to India with her.

“Pardon?” I stammered, unable to believe my bad luck. To be caught twice by Memsahib Spragg in one morning!

“My dear Kathleen, you simply cannot mix with those on the lower deck. You are in danger of meeting steerage passengers and common sailors.”

“That's hardly a danger.”

“
What?
” she spluttered, forgetting her manners.

“I am merely going to play bowls.”

“With
them
?” Mrs. Spragg asked, looking through her silver-rimmed lorgnette at the crowd enjoying the game. By this memsahib's lights they were a common lot, in threadbare clothes with rough manners. I thought they were far better company than the ladies and gentlemen on top deck.

“The young lady is a dab hand at the bowls,” a weather-beaten old salt who had overheard us declared. “She's got a good eye and a steady hand.”

“This is scandalous,” declared Mrs. Spragg, shaking her lorgnette at the sailor. “If Miss Salter behaves like this in our cantonment in Baroda she will be cut dead! No one will receive her socially.”

“Not pukka,” Edwin said, with a sly glance at me.

“Pardon?” I asked, puzzled.

“Not the done thing.”

“My dear Kathleen, as you have no mother, it is up to
me to provide moral and social guidance.” Grasping me roughly by the arm Mrs. Spragg drew me away from the bowls game. “You must learn some decorum.”

I bit down the rebellious words I wanted to spit at Mrs. Spragg, as I tried to wriggle out of her grasp. A moment later something hard hit me in the shin, causing me to topple over. It was Edwin, who had sent a bowls ball rolling straight for me.

“I do beg your pardon, Miss Salter,” Edwin smirked, offering his hand to me. “I don't believe I know my own strength.”

I glared at the boy, knowing he had done it on purpose. Ignoring his outstretched hand, I rose. I could bear it no longer; I had to flee from the combined Spragg forces. It was especially irritating as I had a particular reason for going down to the lower deck. We had been aboard the
Himalaya
for weeks without a sight of Gaston Champlon, the strange turban-wearing Indian or the monkey.

That Indian. As I mused on him, a sort of foreboding took hold of me. I am an instinctive creature. My mind flies about making connections. Sometimes, even if I say so myself, they are spot-on. Sometimes my guesses are, well, wrong. But this time, I felt so
sure
.

This shadowy Indian. The missing evil Maharajah of Baroda. Somehow they were linked. Maybe the mysterious
Indian was the Maharajah. Maybe he had kidnapped Champlon for some dreadful reason of his own. Or maybe the turbaned Indian was someone hired by Malharrao.

My aunt, who I had counted on being my ally and teasing out my thinking with me, was strangely listless. Like Miss Minchin, who had spent the whole voyage being seasick, she'd mislaid her spine. She hadn't even made a serious effort to find Champlon aboard ship—or plan what we would do once we reached India. Frankly, she was mooning about like a lovesick waif. Once she told me she believed the Frenchman had found passage on another ship. But I was not so confident. For a start there were no other ships sailing from Liverpool docks to India at the same time as the
Himalaya
. Furthermore, had not Aunt Hilda's groom heard Champlon order their luggage to be sent on to the
Himalaya
? It didn't make sense that he had suddenly decamped, sought a passage on another ship. They had no reason to believe that we were following them.

No. I believed that Champlon and the Indian were far removed from the gracious first-class world of dining-, drawing- and ballroom. I believed they were hiding among the dirt of the steerage passengers. That was why it was vital that I should make friends down there. So I could really search the ship.

But clearly today there were far too many busybodies on the warpath. I decided to return to my cabin. I shared a tiny space, equipped with three fold-down bunks, with Rachel and the Minchin. Sharing with Rachel was fun, but as you may imagine it was rather more difficult with my governess.

I opened the door, letting in a shaft of sunlight which cut through the cabin's stale air and gloom, only to be met with a groan.

“Is that you, Kathleen?” a feeble voice inquired.

“Yes.”

“Please shut the door immediately, my eyes can't bear the light.”

With that, the Minchin sank back on to her pile of pillows, eyelashes fluttering in her white, mute face. Beside her bunk—which was obviously the most comfortable in the crammed room—stood a tin bucket. With a sinking heart I saw my governess had been seasick again. The porthole window showed dark sky and boiling waves. We had been lucky to have got a port-side cabin, which are meant to be far more comfortable than those on the starboard side. I felt a surge of impatience with the Minchin.
Why
couldn't she pull herself together and get up? Immediately though, I felt guilty. Ever since the affair of the love letter I had been
trying
to be nice to her. Besides, she did look very sick, poor thing.

“Is there anything I can get you? A little beef tea? I can call for the steward.”

“No. Nothing,” she groaned. “Last time I had beef tea it was cold and there were spots of grease floating on top. I was indisposed twice afterward.”

“Indisposed?”

“I vomited, Kathleen.”

I shuddered. Still, if I stayed in the cabin I would be seasick too, so hastily I decided to brave the memsahibs outside. At least the air was clean on deck. As I emerged I ran into Waldo. Literally, I am afraid, for I banged smack into his chest.

“Whoa!” he roared, as if I was a mettlesome pony. “Where are you going to in such a hurry, little girl?”

“What are you doing hanging about my cabin, little man?” I retorted. “Can't you get along for five minutes without me?”

“You're late for luncheon.”

“I didn't hear the bugle.”

“You need to get your ears washed then.”

I followed Waldo to the dining saloon. The room was already filled up, most of the seats at the two long tables crowded with the chattering throng. One of the most eligible bachelors on the voyage, a Mr. Charles Prinsep, who was rumored to be the younger son of a baronet, was sitting at one of the tables. He was a nice young
man, with wavy brown hair, a snub nose and a toothy smile. I thought him daft but Rachel said he was a good sport and tended to blush when he was around. Clustered around him were the “Fishing Fleet.” No, not sportsmen, but well-bred young ladies shipped out to the colonies to find husbands among the British soldiers and government men who ran our Raj—our Empire in India.

The ones who failed to hook their gentlemen-fish went sadly home to England in the spring and were known as the “Returned Empties.”

I slipped into a vacant chair only to have Mrs. Spragg and the inevitable Edwin took the seats next to me. The woman could not let me alone. Thank goodness my aunt, father and friends were also at the table. The one person on ship Mrs. Spragg was scared of was Aunt Hilda.

After grace was said, menu cards were passed around the table. I do not know why they bothered with the cards, for the choice was between braised and broiled salt beef. Since we left the Cape of Good Hope in Africa, supplies of fresh food had run low. It was days since we had seen such a luxury as a fresh tomato or a green bean. It was a huge relief that we were finally nearing Bombay, due to reach the Indian city in a day or two, I was told. Apart from all else, I was truly glad that I was going to
India. You see, it is the land of the sacred cow—where it is forbidden to eat beef. Personally I never want to swallow the stuff, in any shape or form, ever again.

Indeed I might even become one of those eccentrics they call “vegetarians.” I would forswear all meat—except sausages, ham and steak and kidney pudding.

Gritting my teeth I went to work on the leathery beef, which was only slightly improved by mustard. Mrs. Spragg meanwhile was rambling on and on about the “White Man's Burden”—the duty of the English race to rule the world.

“The British are the noblest race in the world. That is why, Kathleen, your poor standards of dress and manner let down the whole Raj,” Mrs. Spragg lectured, fixing me with her gimlet eye. “You must understand, in India you are not merely a young girl, you are a representative of a race with divine rights. We have a sacred trust in India to—”

“Make money,” Aunt Hilda interrupted, loudly. “That's the Englishwoman's only duty. Making money is all that matters, Kit. Blast your boots if you do it in a stained bonnet.”

“Surely you cannot mean it, my dear Miss Salter,” Mrs. Spragg gasped. “You cannot mean to praise mere grubby commercial enterprise over the uplift of the natives.”

“Give me a gold brick over an ‘uplifted native' any day
of the week. Including Sunday!”

Mrs. Spragg cast a scandalized look at my aunt. But she was too frightened of her reputation, as well as her sharp tongue, to get into a fight with her. Shortly after, pudding arrived. To my dismay it was a lumpy suet concoction. I prodded it with my spoon and ate a few halfhearted mouthfuls. Much more of this food and I would be joining the Minchin in the sickroom. I threw down my spoon and pushed back my chair. Announcing that I felt a little ill, I left the table.

To my surprise Aunt Hilda joined me. As we walked on the promenade deck she seized my arm.

“Want to have a natter,” she said.

“Yes?”

“About—” she fell silent. This hesitation was not at all like my aunt.

“What is it, Aunt Hilda?” I asked gently.

“Well—look here, it's Champlon. Do you think he's run off with another woman?”

I was silent for a moment. As I've already told you, I had been thinking a great deal over the voyage. I couldn't really believe Champlon had stolen Amelia Edwards's ankh or been in league with the monkey and the turbaned stranger. I felt there was some link with the Spraggs' Maharajah. We had received a wire from Oxford, apparently the fragment I'd found was definitely
from the ankh, and the police were full of praise for my actions. A grateful Miss Edwards had even promised me a reward.

“Aunt, you know what I think,” I said finally. “He's been kidnapped.”

“There's no evidence Champlon has been kidnapped.” She paused for a moment, her eyes searching mine. “You know what Frenchmen are like. They like to flit about from girl to girl.”

“You're hardly a girl,” I blurted. The words were out before I realized how tactless they were. “I mean—”

“Yes, yes … Nonetheless, they like to flit.”

We were passing by my cabin. Dark clouds hung low and a strong sea breeze was blowing. I shivered, suddenly chilled and at that moment I heard a crash from within. Followed by a loud shriek. Hurriedly, I flung open my door.

Miss Minchin, dressed in a lavender tea gown, was sitting bolt upright in her bunk. There was terror on her face. She was pointing with a quivering finger, blubbering incoherently. I followed the direction of her finger and saw the porthole window was hanging open. Rushing over I looked out, but there was nothing there, just the frothing waves and the sting of sea spray.