Barbara Cleverly - The Palace Tiger

Joe detected the sound of the tabor and sarangi, a flute and a guitar whose exponent was so skilled he could have appeared with the Philharmonic. The sweet notes of the tappa filled the air, a measure of plaintive simplicity which put Joe in mind of his own native Scottish tunes. After the briefest of pauses, the music struck up again but louder, faster and more compelling.

Into the arena swirled a group of female dancers, the bells on their ankles sounding an insistent rhythm as they stamped their way forward and took up their places on the black and white squares of the courtyard. Against this sombre backdrop the bright reds, blues, purples and yellows of their ankle-length petticoats of heavy silk stood out, lit by countless flares and strings of lights hanging from the columns. Their hair, jet-black, was smoothed down in gleaming curtains on either side of their faces, the rims of their dark eyes lined with kohl.

Nautch girls, that was what he had heard them called, though Joe had not yet seen nautch dancing. Much enjoyed by the bachelors in the employ of the East India Company, these performances were discouraged by their, for the most part, married and prudish successors from Victorian England. And more fool them! Joe thought as he settled to enjoy the dance. Expressive eyes and flashing smiles enchanted him and, as they began to dance to an ever faster rhythm, he was lost in admiration for their lithe vitality. Of the dozen dancers one or two appeared to be the stars and they came forward to perform individually before the Dewan. One in particular attracted Joe’s admiration. A little taller than the others, she was outstandingly acrobatic in her dancing and drew applause from the crowd. With the composure of Ellen Terry taking a third curtain call, she began to repeat her routine and Joe was intrigued to notice that whenever she came out of a turn, it was his eye she caught. He thought he must have been mistaken but no, when she rejoined the rest of the company, she continued to watch him. The Dewan himself seemed to be conscious of this. He turned to Joe with a raised eyebrow and, leaning towards him, in an amused tone whispered, ‘Her name’s Padmini!’

He continued to chuckle good-naturedly to himself until the dancers, with a final athletic flourish, disappeared.

Glasses of pomegranate juice and iced tea were suddenly at their elbows while the musicians wound down, playing a soft native tune. Suddenly, the Dewan rose to his feet and the rest of the audience rose also, a general stirring of excitement beginning to run through the assembled courtiers.

‘At this point in the evening’s entertainment my ancestors would have regaled you with a gladiatorial combat,’ said the Dewan conversationally to Joe. ‘But no longer, though I have in mind a contest of sorts. We Rajputs enjoy a sporting exhibition as much as the British, you know. We are hoping our guests will participate.’

Joe was beginning to feel a ripple of anxiety run through him. He hadn’t quite liked the emphasis on the word ‘British’. Surely they weren’t expecting him to put on a show? Good Lord! — didn’t they go in for bare-knuckle boxing and panther wrestling? There were lengths he was not prepared to go to even for the honour of the Empire. He waited in trepidation for the Dewan’s next announcement.

‘We are hoping to engage the might of Scotland Yard in a friendly — I hope friendly — round of one of our favourite Rajput games. Chaturanga, we call it.’

Joe searched his memory for a reference to this sport but drew a blank.

‘You play chess?’

‘Chess?’ Joe could only repeat in some astonishment. ‘A game which originated in India, I believe. Yes, I do. . but — here? Now?’

‘Yes, indeed, here. Look! Do you see the squares? The courtyard is laid out for an open air game.’

Joe looked again at the pattern of black and white marble slabs and realized that they were more than merely decorative. He was looking at a huge gaming board.

‘This is an adaptation of our national game, chaupar or pucheesee,’ the Dewan was going on. ‘Normally it is played on a four-armed grid and rather similar to your own Ludo. Pieces move around the board according to numbers thrown using conch shells.’ Joe nodded dubiously. He had vaguely heard of this game. ‘But my brother is very fond of chess as it is played in Europe — it leaves less to chance and shows off the players’ skills — so he had the court adapted for playing this game. He understands that you are a skilled player, Commander. .’ A courteous nod and a smile in his direction did nothing to ease Joe’s forebodings.

The crowd pressed forward, murmuring and smiling, the dark-suited dinner party guests distinguishable amongst but greatly outnumbered by turbaned Rajput nobles in court dress, diamonds winking and pearls gleaming against silk coats. The atmosphere was one of restrained joviality but with an undercurrent which to Joe was palpable, an undercurrent of excitement. They shuffled around the courtyard, taking up positions giving a good view of the chessboard. He tried to recall whether their interest went as far as betting on the outcome and wondered very much who his opponent would be. With sinking heart he acknowledged that this was undoubtedly a set-up and that one of these clever, competitive Rajputs had already been chosen to make a fool of the officer from Scotland Yard.

He was surprised and relieved to hear the Dewan announce that his opponent was to be Edgar Troop.

Smiling and feigning humble astonishment, Edgar took up a position on the opposite side of the square. He nodded courteously to Joe and clicked his heels. Joe did the same, his mind racing. He had no idea that Edgar could even play chess, but then, there were many facets of Edgar’s character which, thankfully, had so far remained a mystery.

Reminding himself that this was just a bit of after-dinner entertainment and that with deliberate sleight of hand they had been set against each other to amuse the more skilled Indian audience, Joe determined to give a good performance. Chess, for him, was the equivalent of battle planning and he began at once to check the lie of the land. He had no idea of the local rules and assumed that his opponent did. But the Dewan was speaking again.

‘Commander Sandilands has not played our national game before. I think, under the British rule of fair play, it would be in order to appoint an adviser, one to each side.’

A murmur of agreement went up.

‘Claude? May I ask you to second Sandilands? I myself will undertake to assist Captain Troop. Not that Edgar needs or would pay attention to advice, I think.’

Joe noticed that Colin O’Connor was frowning and looking disconcerted. He caught Joe’s eye and made a grimace Joe could not fathom. ‘Bad luck, old man, but do your best,’ was the nearest he could get to an interpretation.

The atmosphere was becoming increasingly tense, murmur and chatter shot through with sudden bursts of laughter, long speculative looks directed at the two players.

‘Are they betting on the result?’ Joe asked Vyvyan who had taken up a position at his right hand.

‘Betting? No, not at all. But the outcome will entertain them. . whichever way it goes. They’re as fond of a bit of gossip and speculation as your average officers’ mess,’ he replied cryptically.

‘What the hell?’

‘Just calm down and go along with it, Sandilands. It’s only a game. It’ll give a lot of pleasure to a lot of people if you foul up and that’s the worst that can happen. At least in this combat nobody dies. They like a good show so I’d slightly overdo everything if I were you. Play to the gallery. Now listen. These are the rules. It’s very simple for a competent chess player which I understand you are. .’