Peter Tremayne - An Ensuing Evil and Others

Lord Chetwynd Miller grinned. It was a boyish grin. He spread his hands in a deprecating gesture. It was true that he had been leading his guests on. He had invited them to see the Eye of Shiva and kept them waiting long enough.

He gazed around at them. Apart from Bill Foran, it could not be said that he really knew the other guests. It was one of those typical Residency dinner parties, whereby it was his duty to dine with any British dignitaries passing through Baroda. Lieutenant Tompkins, his ADC, had compiled this evening’s guest list.

Royston he knew by reputation. There was Father Cassian, a swarthy, secretive-looking Catholic priest who seemed totally unlike a missionary. He had learned that Cassian was a man of many interests-not the least of which was an interest in Hindu religion and mythology. There was Sir Rupert Harvey. A bluff, arrogant man, handsome in a sort of dissolute way. He had just arrived in Baroda and seemed to dabble in various forms of business. Then there was the tall languid Scotsman, James Gregg. Silent, taciturn and a curious way of staring at one as if gazing right through them. He was, according to the list, a mining engineer. For a mere mining engineer, Tompkins had observed earlier, Gregg could afford to stay at the best hotel in Baroda and did not seem to lack money.

The last guest sat at the bottom of the table, slightly apart from the others. It was Lord Chetwynd Millers solitary Indian guest, Inspector Ram Jayram, who, in spite of being a Bengali by birth, was employed by the Government of Baroda as its chief of detectives. Ram Jayram had a dry wit and a fund of fascinating stories, which made him a welcome guest to pass away the tedium of many soirees. That evening, however, he had been invited especially.

Word had come to Jayram’s office that an attempt was going to be made to rob the Residency that night, and Lord Chetwynd Miller had accepted Jayram’s request that he attend as a dinner guest so that he might keep a close eye on events. It was Jayram who suggested to the Resident that the potential thief might be found among the guests themselves. A suggestion that the Resident utterly discounted.

But the news of the Residents possession of the fabulous ruby-the Eye of Shiva-was the cause of much talk and speculation in the city. The Resident was not above such vanity that he did not want to display it to his guests on the one evening in which the ruby was his.

Lord Chetwynd Miller cleared his throat. “Gentlemen…,” he began hesitantly. “Gentlemen, you are right. I have kept you in suspense long enough. I have, indeed, invited you here, not only because I appreciate your company, but I want you to see the fabled Eye of Shiva before it is taken on board the SS Caledonia tomorrow morning for transportation to London.”

They sat back, expectantly watching their host.

Lord Chetwynd Miller nodded to Tompkins, who clapped his hands as a signal.

The dining room door opened, and Devi Bhadra, Chetwynd Millers majordomo, entered, pausing on the threshold to gaze inquiringly at the lieutenant.

“Bring it in now, Devi Bhadra,” instructed the ADC.

Devi Bhadra bowed slightly, no more than a slight gesture of the head, and withdrew.

A moment later he returned carrying before him an ornate tray on which was a box of red Indian gold with tiny glass panels in it. Through these panels everyone could see clearly a white velvet cushion on which was balanced a large red stone.

There was a silence while Devi Bhadra solemnly placed it on the table in front of the Resident and then withdrew in silence.

As the door shut behind him, almost on a signal, the company leaned toward the ornate box with gasps of surprise and envy at the perfection of the ruby that nestled tantalizingly on its cushion.

Father Cassian, who was nearest, pursed his lips and gave forth an unpriestly-like whistle. “Amazing, my dear sir. Absolutely!”

James Gregg blinked; otherwise, his stoic face showed no expression. “So this is the famous Eye of Shiva, eh? I’ll wager it has a whole history behind it?”

Royston snorted. “Damned right, Gregg. Many a person has died for that little stone there.”

“The stone, so it is said, is cursed.”

They swung round to look at the quiet Bengali. Jayram was smiling slightly. He had approved the Resident’s suggestion that if one of his guests was going to make an attempt on the jewel, it were better that the jewel be placed where everyone could see it so that such theft would be rendered virtually impossible.

“What d’you mean, eh?” snapped Sir Rupert Harvey irritably. It had become obvious during the evening that Harvey was one of those men who disliked mixing with “the natives” except on express matters of business. He was apparently not used to meeting Indians as his social equals and showed it.

It was Major Foran who answered. “The inspector-” Did he emphasize the Bengali’s rank just a little? “The inspector is absolutely right. There is a curse that goes with the stone, isn’t that right, Chetwynd?”

Lord Chetwynd Miller grinned and spread his hands. “Therein is the romance of the stone, my friends. Well, how can you have a famous stone without a history, or without a curse?”

“I believe I sense a story here,” drawled Gregg, reaching for his brandy, sniffing it before sipping gently.

“Will you tell it, sir?” encouraged Royston.

Lord Chetwynd Miller’s features bespoke that he would delight in nothing better than to tell them the story of his famous ruby-the Eye of Shiva.

“You all know that the stone is going to London as a private gift from Savaji Rao III to Her Majesty? Yesterday the stone was officially handed into my safekeeping as representative of Her Majesty. I have made the arrangements for it to be placed on the SS Caledonia tomorrow to be transported to London.”

“We all read the Times of India,” muttered Sir Rupert, but his sarcasm was ignored.

“Quite so,” Lord Chetwynd Miller said dryly. “The stone has a remarkable history. It constituted one of a pair of rubies which were the eyes of a statue of the Hindu god Shiva-”

“A god of reproduction,” chimed in Father Cassian, almost to himself. “Both benign and terrible, the male generative force of Vedic religion.”

“It is said,” went on the Resident, “that the statue stood in the ancient temple of Vira-bhadra in Betul country. It was supposedly of gold, encrusted with jewels, and its eyes were the two rubies. The story goes that during the suppression of the ‘Mutiny,’ a soldier named Colonel Vickers was sent to Betul to punish those who had taken part. He had a reputation for ruthlessness. I think he was involved with the massacre at Allahabad-”

“What was that?” demanded Gregg. “I know nothing of the history here.”

“Six thousand people, regardless of sex or age, were slaughtered at Allahabad by British troops as a reprisal,” explained Father Cassian in a quiet tone.

“The extreme ferocity with which the uprising was suppressed was born of fear,” explained Major Foran.

“Only way to treat damned rebels!” snapped Royston. “Hang a few, and the people will soon fall into line, eh?”

“In that particular case,” observed the Resident, screwing his face up in distaste, “the Sepoys who had taken part in the insurrection were strapped against the muzzles of cannons and blown apart as a lesson to others.”

“Military necessity,” snapped Major Foran, irritated by the implied criticism.

The Resident paused a moment and continued. “Well, it is said that Vickers sacked the temple of Vira-bhadra and took the rubies for himself while he ordered the rest of the statue melted down. This so enraged the local populace that they attacked Vickers and managed to reclaim the statue, taking it to a secret hiding place. Vickers was killed, and the rubies vanished. Stories permeated afterward that only one ruby was recovered by the guardians of the temple. A soldier managed to grab the other one from Vickers’s dying hand. He, in his turn, was killed, and the stone had a colorful history until it found its way into the hands of the Gaekwar of Baroda.”