Peter Tremayne - An Ensuing Evil and Others

Inspector Ram Jayram coughed politely. “It should be pointed out,” he said slowly, “that the Gaekwar in question was not Savaji Rao III but the despot whom he overthrew a few years ago.”

The Resident nodded agreement. “The jewel was found in the Gaekwar’s collection, and Savaji Rao thought it would be a courteous gesture to send the jewel to Her Majesty as a token of his friendship.”

Gregg sat staring at the red glistening stone with pursed lips. “A history as bloody as it looks,” he muttered. “The story is that all people who claim ownership of the stone, who are not legitimate owners, meet with bad ends.”

Sir Rupert chuckled cynically as he relit his cigar. “Could be that Savaji Rao has thought of that and wants no part of the stone? Better to pass it on quickly before the curse bites!”

Lieutenant Tompkins flushed slightly, wondering whether Sir Rupert was implying some discourtesy to the Queen-Empress. He was youthful, and this was his first appointment in India. It was all new to him and perplexing, especially the cynicism about Empire that he found prevalent among his fellow veteran colonials.

“The only curse, I am told, is that there are some Hindus who wish to return the stone to the statue,” Father Cassian observed.

Sir Rupert turned to Inspector Jayram with a grin that was more a sneer. “Is that so? Do you feel that the stone should belong back in the statue? You’re a Hindu, aren’t vou?”

Jayram returned the gaze of the businessman and smiled politely. “I am a Hindu, yes. Father Cassian refers to the wishes of a sect called the Vira-bhadra, whose temple the stone was taken from. They are worshippers of Shiva in his role of the wrathful avenger and herdsman of souls. For them he wears a necklace of skulls and a garland of snakes. He is the malevolent destroyer. I am not part of their sect.”

Sir Rupert snorted as if in cynical disbelief. “A Hindu is a Hindu,” he sneered.

“Ah, so?” Inspector Jayram did not appear in the least put out by the obvious insult. “I presume that you are a Christian, Sir Rupert?”

“Of course!” snapped the man. “What has that to do with anything?”

“Then, doubtless, you pay allegiance to the Bishop of Rome as Holy Father of the Universal Church?”

“Of course not… I am an Anglican,” growled Sir Rupert.

Jayram continued to smile blandly. “But a Christian is a Christian. Is this not so, Sir Rupert?”

Sir Rupert reddened as Father Cassian exploded in laughter. “He has you there,” he chuckled as his mirth subsided a little.

Jayram turned with an appreciative smile. “I believe that it was one of your fourth-century saints and martyrs of Rome, Pelagius, who said that labels are devices for saving people the trouble of thinking. Pelagius was the great friend of Augustine of Hippo, wasn’t he?”

Father Cassian smiled brightly and inclined his head. “You have a wide knowledge, Inspector.”

Sir Rupert growled angrily and was about to speak when Lord Chetwynd Miller interrupted. “It is true that the story of the curse emanated from the priests of the sect of Vira-bhadra, who continue to hunt for the stone.”

Royston lit a fresh cheroot. He preferred them to the cigars provided by their host.

“Well, it is an extraordinary stone. Would it be possible for me to handle it, Your Excellency?”

The Resident smiled indulgently. “It will be the last chance. When it gets to London, it will doubtless be locked away in the royal collection.”

He took a small key from his waistcoat pocket and bent forward, turning the tiny lock that secured the box and raising the lid so that the stone sparkled brightly on its pale bed of velvet.

He reached forward and took out the stone with an exaggerated air of carelessness and handed it to the eager Royston.

Royston held the stone up to the light between his thumb and forefinger and whistled appreciatively. “I’ve seen a few stones in my time, but this one is really awe inspiring. A perfect cut, too.”

“You know something about these things, Royston?” inquired Sir Rupert, interested.

Royston shrugged. “I don’t wish to give the impression that I am an expert, but I’ve traded a few stones in my time. My opinion is probably as good as the next mans.”

He passed the ruby to Father Cassian, who was seated next to him. The priest took the stone and held it to the light. His hand trembled slightly, but he assumed a calm voice. “It’s nice,” he conceded. “But the value, as I see it, is in the entire statue of the god. I place no value on solitary stones, but only in an overall work of art, in man’s endeavor to create something of beauty.”

Sir Rupert snorted as an indication of his disagreement with this philosophy and reached out a hand.

Father Cassian hesitated, still staring at the red stone.

At that moment there came the sound of an altercation outside. The abruptness of the noise caused everyone to pause. Lieutenant Tompkins sprang to his feet and strode to the door. As he opened it, Lady Chetwynd Miller, a small but determined woman in her mid-fifties, stood framed in the doorway.

“Forgive me interrupting, gentlemen,” she said with studied calm. Then looking toward her husband, she said quietly, “My dear, Devi Bhadra says the servants have caught a thief attempting to leave your study.”

Lord Chetwynd Miller gave a startled glance toward Inspector Jayram, then rose and made his way to the door. Tompldns stood aside as the Resident laid a reassuring hand on Lady Chetwynd Millers arm.

“Now then, dear, nothing to worry about. You go back to your ladies in the drawing room, and we’ll see to this.”

Lady Chetwynd Miller seemed reluctant but smiled briefly at the company before withdrawing. The Resident said to his ADC: “Ask Devi Bhadra to bring the rascal here into the dining room.”

He turned back with a thin smile toward Inspector Jayram. “It seems as if your intelligence was right. We have a prisoner for you to take away, Inspector.”

Jayram raised his hands in a curiously helpless gesture. “This is technically British soil, Excellency. But if you wish me to take charge?… Let us have a look at this man.”

At that moment, Lieutenant Tompkins returned with Devi Bhadra together with a burly Sepoy from Foran’s Eighth Bombay Infantry. They frog-marched a man into the dining room. The man was thin, wearing a dhoti , a dirty loincloth affected by Hindus, an equally dirty turban, and a loose robe open at the front. He wore a cheap jeweled pendant hung on a leather thong around his neck.

The Resident went back to his seat and gazed up with a hardened scowl. “Bring the man into the light and let us see him.”

The man was young, handsome, but his face was disfigured in a sullen expression. His head hung forward. Devi Bhadra prodded the man forward so that the light from the lanterns reflected on his face.

“I have searched him thoroughly, sahib. He has no weapons.”

“Do you speak English?” demanded Lord Chetwynd Miller.

The man did not reply.

The British Resident nodded to Devi Bhadra, who repeated the question in Gujarati, a language of the country. There was no response.

“Forgive me,” Inspector Jayram interrupted. “I believe the man might respond to Hindi.”

Devi Bhadra repeated his question, but there was no reply.

“Looks like your guess was wrong,” observed Royston.

Inspector Jayram rose leisurely and came to stand by the man. His eyes narrowed as he looked at the pendant. Then he broke into a staccato to which the captive jerked up his head and nodded sullenly.

Jayram turned to the Resident with an apologetic smile. “The man speaks a minor dialect called Munda. I have some knowledge of it. He is, therefore, from the Betul district.”