The Sandalwood Princess

Copyright
© 1990 Loretta Chekani

To my husband, Walter

1811

Though the house
Hemu had so nervously entered was finer than any he could aspire to, it seemed at first far too modest for the powerful woman who dwelt here. Yet perhaps her secluded abode did suit the Rani Simhi. She was the princess of secrets. Even her true name was no longer spoken. The great Lioness, the most dangerous woman in all India, might live precisely where and as she chose. So her humble messenger Hemu meditated as he stood, head bowed, patiently awaiting her pleasure.

Moments passed. The fan her large manservant held swayed languorously over her head, and the smoke of her hookah curled and shuddered in the lazy current.

At last she spoke. “You bring me news, Hemu.”

“Yes, princess.”

She gestured to him to speak.

“My master but two days ago composed a letter to his friend in England,” Hemu said. “My master expressed his sorrow that the friend’s wife is no more.”

The rani raised her index finger a fraction of an inch. Instantly, every servant vanished from the room, except for the great, hulking man who continued dragging the fan back and forth in the heavy air.

“Is it the name I gave you?” she asked Hemu.

He produced a piece of paper on which he’d painstakingly copied the English letters: Hedgrave.

The princess glanced at the paper, then up at her servant. “This is an intelligent man, Padji,” she said. “We will give him five hundred rupees.”

Hemu’s jaw dropped.

“You see the advantages of literacy,” she told the messenger. “You are a rich man now. I advise you to leave your master.”

As she spoke, the fan stopped moving. Padji drew out a bag of coins and gave it to the stunned Hemu.

Hemu left, showering hysterical blessings upon the wise and generous rani whose life, he prayed, would continue a thousand years. When his footsteps died away, the rani rose.

“Padji,” she said, “we go to Calcutta.”

1814

In England, in the richly furnished study of Hedgrave House, the Marquess of Hedgrave trembled with fury. “It is incomprehensible to me,” he raged. “At last the she-devil comes out of hiding, and you tell me we can’t touch her.”

“Politically, her timing was perfect, as usual,” Lord Danbridge answered. “Ranjit Singh is bound to capitulate, sooner or later, and he’s not above selling his supposed allies. She had sense enough to move before he did. She knew Bengal would be a deal safer than the Punjab for her, especially with the Company’s protection. Rightly so, I must say. Whatever you think of her, the Rani Simhi’s invaluable. The Ministry could do with a few more minds like that. Why, her spies—”

“I know. The whole damned subcontinent’s infested with them.” Lord Hedgrave stood up and stalked to the fireplace. Glaring into the flames, he said, half to himself, “I had them offer her twenty-five thousand. It’s
mine,
curse her, but I was willing to pay. I might have known that wouldn’t work. She knew who wanted it. Who else knows she’s got it but the man she stole it from?”

Hedgrave had always had a bee in his bonnet about the Indian woman, his friend thought. In the years since Lady Hedgrave’s death, however, the thing had grown into an obsession. Masking his concern, Lord Danbridge said gently, “Maybe she hasn’t got it any longer. It’s been a long time.”

“Then what’s she hiding?” his host snapped. “You sent the news yourself. Six different agents assigned. Three now incapacitated, two mysteriously vanished, one dead.”

“India can be a dangerous place.”

“Precisely.” Lord Hedgrave turned back to his guest “That is why I want you to contact the Falcon.”

As Danbridge opened his mouth to protest, the marquess shook his head. “I know what you’re going to say, Danbridge. Don’t waste your breath. I happen to know he’s working for us.”

“I merely wished to point out that this is not the sort of enterprise he’s accustomed to undertake.”

“He’ll undertake anything, provided the reward is high enough. You may offer him fifty thousand pounds—in addition, of course, to expenses. He’ll get his money as soon as he puts the object into my hands.”

“Here?” Danbridge asked incredulously. “You want him to come to England?”

“Into my hands. We’re a long way from Calcutta, and the woman’s fiendishly clever. Too much could go wrong along the way. I won’t have him passing it on to anyone. He is to get it—I don’t care how—and put it into my hands,” he repeated, as though it were an incantation. His blue eyes glittered with an odd light.

Lord Danbridge looked away uneasily as he considered his friend’s demand. Certainly, Hedgrave had, when required, moved mountains. Dealing with India—which was to say, the East India Company—was generally a case of moving mountains: Board of Control, Secret Committee, Directors, Council, Governor-General, and General Secretariat, not to mention Parliament itself. A lot of stubborn
men, precious few of whom truly considered the well-being of the vast subcontinent England now reluctantly managed, thanks to Clive and Wellesley and their ilk.

Except in this one disturbing matter, Hedgrave at least acted disinterestedly. He was one of the few who truly grasped the difficulties of overseeing India’s internal affairs and strove to accommodate the contradictory demands of the British and the many differing cultures of India.

Considering Hedgrave’s unstinting political labours, one could hardly begrudge him a favour in return.

The Indian woman had apparently stolen from him an object of considerable value. Now that she was out of hiding, Hedgrave wanted it back. Given the previous failures, the Falcon was their only hope. In any case, he was the only man Danbridge could rely on not to get killed in the attempt.

Lord Danbridge met the feverish blue gaze. I’ll contact him,” he said, “but it will take some time.”

“I’ve waited thirty years,” was the taut answer. “I can wait a little longer.”

1816

There were worse
places to live in Calcutta, and better. Here in the crowded quarter, as elsewhere, the streets flooded in the monsoon season and the price of a palanquin soared in consequence. Fever, too, struck here, just as it did in the great palaces of Garden Reach and in the meanest slums.

The place stank, as all Calcutta stank. Indoors, the odour of ghee blended sickeningly with the reek of bug flies. Out of doors, the stench of death overpowered even that of animals and refuse, as the smoke of funeral pyres on the Hooghly riverbank thickened the broiling atmosphere. Incense only added to the miasma. In the near one-hundred-degree heat of midday, the noisome compound curdled and churned like some foul sorcerer’s brew. All the perfumes of Arabia would not sweeten this place and make it fresh again, had it ever been.

All of India was not like Calcutta, Philip knew. Places existed where the breezes blew sweet and pure. He had long since learned, however, to close his senses to what could not be mended or amended. Fifteen years in India had taught him, if not an Oriental patience, then a sufficient Occidental stoicism. The climate, the stench, were beyond his control. Thus he simply accepted them. As to the
neighbourhood—admittedly, one might have lived more luxuriously, but then, not so anonymously.

His rented stucco cottage suited his current role as a hookah merchant. In this busy quarter, his comings and goings aroused little interest. His command of the language was flawless, as was his grasp of etiquette. The fierce Indian sun had darkened his complexion, and an application of nut oil did the same for his fair hair. Even the blue of his eyes did not betray him. Eurasians were scarcely rare in this place.

Calcutta’s founder, an Englishman named Job Charnock, had married a Brahmin lady. Like Job, the British who came in earlier times mingled freely with the natives. One found their progeny not only throughout the subcontinent, but at Eton and Oxford as well.

Thus Philip Astonley, youngest son of the Viscount Felkoner—blue-blooded and unequivocally British—easily passed in India as a mongrel. This was no great transformation, in Philip’s opinion. In the process of ejecting his youngest son from the family, his lordship had called the eighteen-year-old an ungrateful cur. Philip perceived small difference between Nameless and Anonymous. In any case, if he ceased at present to be anonymous, he would very likely cease to live.

The thought was not an idle one. As he turned the corner into the narrow street, his finely tuned instincts stirred in warning. The street was deserted, as it usually was in the sweltering afternoon, when most of Calcutta slept. Yet he’d caught a movement, a glancing shadow at the opposite end of the street. His steps quickened.

He had the house key in his hand when he reached the door. Before he opened it, Philip glanced about once more. The street lay empty and still. In the next instant, he’d slipped through the door and locked it behind him. The small house, shuttered against the glaring sun, was dark, but not altogether quiet. From the room beyond came a
strangled moan. Silence. Then another moan, higher pitched.

Philip drew out his knife and crept noiselessly to the bedroom. A wail of agony tore through the stillness, and he saw a man on the floor beside the bed jerk convulsively. Muttering an oath, Philip hurried forward, and dropped to his knees beside his servant’s knotted body.

His face was hot and soaked with sweat, his pulse frenetic. As soon as Philip touched him, Jessup jerked spasmodically and began to babble. The words, half English and half Hindustani, spilled in a steady, chattering stream, punctuated by strangled cries of anguish. It looked like fever, but it wasn’t.

“Damn you,” Philip growled. “Don’t you die on me, soldier.”

Grasping the servant under the shoulders, Philip hauled him onto the bed. The body twisted and trembled, then knotted up once more in pain. The hysterical litany—of scorpions, cobras, bits of the Book of Common Prayer,
frag
ments of battles, women’s names, oaths—was broken by choked wails of agony.

The poison evidently acted slowly, bringing hallucinations as well as pain. Without knowing exactly what sort of poison, Philip dared give his servant nothing, not even water.

He squeezed Jessup’s hand. “I’ll have to leave you for a minute, old man,” he whispered. “I’m going for help. Just hang on, will you? Just
hang on.”

The old woman Philip sought lived across the way. Silently praying she’d be home, he threw open the door.

He found her waiting on his doorstep.

He was not altogether surprised. The aged Sharda was the local midwife and doctor. She could probably smell illness and death.

“My servant, mother—” he began.

“I know,” she said. “You have great trouble, Dilip sahib.”

Sabib?
Though Philip bowed his head respectfully as she entered, his eyes narrowed with suspicion.

“Jasu—” he began again.

She gestured him to be silent. “I know,” she said.

In the room beyond, Jessup screamed, then subsided again into demented babbling. The latter was worse than the screams. Philip gritted his teeth. It was all he could do to keep from dragging the old woman to the sickbed. She had her own ways, however.