Barbara Cleverly - The Palace Tiger

To have served with such a unit was a great honour and must, Joe estimated, have made a considerable impression on Prithvi Singh, prince of a warrior state and amateur airman. He looked from the neat, active figure of Captain Mercer to the planes lined up behind him in the hangar. It stood at the end of a taxiway, screened by trees, and at first sight appeared to be an offshoot of the royal stables. The building combined functionality and decorative grace.

Following his gaze, Stuart gave an understanding smile and said, ‘Okay, let’s go have a look at the planes while we’re waiting for our coffee, shall we?’

They strolled over to the hangar, enjoying the freshening breeze that blew through the open ends.

‘Not a dozen, you see, as some of the society magazines would have you believe. Prithvi has — had — five. Now four. Well chosen all the same and goodness knows how much he had to lay out to locate them and have them brought here.’

As Joe’s eyes grew used to the shade he focused on a familiar shape.

‘Yep, that’s a Curtiss Jenny like the one that crashed. We had them for training and aerobatics. Good little plane — anyone can fly it — teach you if you like? No?’

Joe peered into the cockpit fancying himself at the controls. On the pilot’s seat was a small stuffed toy. A tiger with gleaming glass eyes. Joe reached in and picked it up. ‘Good luck charm?’ he asked with a friendly smile. ‘I suppose all the Escadrille Américaine pilots carried a talisman of some sort or another? I know the British did.’

‘Yes. We’re a superstitious lot. But we called ourselves the Lafayette. I was a member of the Lafayette Flying Corps.’ He paused and returned Joe’s smile. ‘I guess you probably know that. . And the tiger ought by rights to be a black velvet cat. We all carried one. Mine got lost somewhere between France and the States. A tiger seemed an appropriate replacement. Still, I’ve always hung on to the other charm we would none of us in the squadron take to the air without.’ He looked questioningly at Joe. ‘You were in Military Intelligence — you must have heard the rumours?’

Joe nodded. ‘It was generally thought you chaps tucked a lady’s silk stocking under your flying helmet for luck!’

Stuart grinned. ‘That’s right. But it had to be freshly worn, of course. And if you had a crash it meant that the lady didn’t care for you any more.’

He reached into the plane and pulled out a flying helmet. With the gesture of a conjuror, he extracted a black silk stocking. ‘Can’t get out of the habit, you see. But they’re not so easy to come by in India. I had to pay someone to steal this for me!’

Joe didn’t seek to know more of its provenance.

‘But, you know, that story’s all romantic hogwash! We did carry stockings — but not for luck!’

To Joe’s surprise, in a practised gesture, Stuart pulled the stocking over his face and grinned evilly at him through the flimsy fabric. The effect was alarming. The features were no longer recognizable, the gleam of eyes and teeth only visible beneath the flattening taut silk. The leg of the stocking was knotted into a pigtail which added to the outlandish image.

‘Face mask! Damn good protection against the cold when you’re flying in winter at ten thousand feet,’ Stuart explained, replacing it in his helmet. ‘And, in fact, it’s useful against the dust storms out here.’

They moved on down the hangar. As they went, Joe’s eye was caught by a rolled-up mattress neatly propped against a wall in a small ante-room the size of a horse stall. ‘I hear you sometimes have a guest for the night?’ said Joe speculatively.

Stuart smiled. ‘Bahadur, you mean? Doesn’t take you long to work out the comings and goings in this labyrinth! I feel sorry for that poor little feller. He thinks he’s in danger and I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s right. He’s got the idea that if he’s a target, then he’s going to be a moving target. Speaking as a flyer who’s survived, I think that’s sound tactics. I help him out when I can. But, you know, Joe, if someone around here wants him dead, then dead is what he’s going to be sooner rather than later.’

He spoke with the matter-of-fact acceptance of death Joe was accustomed to hearing from men who had lost comrades every day in the war and continued cheerfully enough with his guided tour. ‘Parked over there you’ve got a Sopwith Camel and then at the far end you’ll see two enemies from the war. This here’s a Nieuport 17. .’

‘That’s what you flew in France, isn’t it?’

‘It is. The Lafayette and the French Storks, both outfits flew it. Helped us get on top of the Fokkers that had been doing us so much damage.’ He smiled. ‘You can imagine what we called it!’

Stuart stood by the side of the bi-plane and patted its gleaming wooden propeller. Joe could see how one could get fond of this little plane. Nearly half the size of the Jenny, with a gently rounded fuselage, it reminded him of his first pony. The compulsion to stroke its shining flank was irresistible.

‘You’ve not been tempted to paint the insignia of the Lafayette on the side?’ Joe asked, fingers trailing along the sleek grey paintwork. ‘The Apache head, I mean.’

‘Seminole,’ said Stuart. ‘It was a Seminole wearing a war bonnet. No. Some things are better forgotten.’

He strolled over to the last plane. ‘And this here’s the best plane built in the war years. German air force wasn’t supplied with it until the spring of 1918. If they’d had it earlier. .’ He shook his head. ‘I wouldn’t be standing here and the whole war could well have swung the other way. You’ve got to admire it though. And you have to picture it with Manfred von Richthoven at the controls.’

‘The Red Baron? Is this what he flew?’

‘Yep. His unit was the first to be issued with it.’

Joe had never seen the Fokker D. VII close to and found himself murmuring in agreement. The single-seater biplane had a narrow, razor-edged fuselage and squared-off wings. Was it handsome? No, rather it was purposeful and sinister, though Joe acknowledged that this could have been the effect of the black paintwork relieved only by a stylized white imperial eagle stencilled on the fuselage behind the pilot’s seat.

‘160 h.p. Mercedes engine, max speed 124 m.p.h., climbs to ten thousand feet in just over nine minutes. A killing machine. But its best trick is its ability to hang on its propeller at altitude. When the Nieuport will stall or have to lose height, this baby just keeps on soaring.’

The clink of china and a musical call drew their attention back to Ahmed. ‘There’s our coffee! We’ll go sit in the shade over there and you can ask me some policeman-style questions. . some more policeman-style questions!’ he said with slight emphasis. ‘Now we’ve both established who we’re talking to,’ he added.

‘Was it so obvious?’ asked Joe, disarmed by the man’s openness.

‘No. You’re good. But, then, so am I. I may take risks in the air but when my feet are on the ground I’m a careful man. And I take no one at face value either. Plenty of carpet-baggers and scoundrels around after the war; folks who’d never heard a shot fired in anger suddenly awarded themselves medals and turned con-artist. Old pros like us can suss them out straight away but most folks are easily taken in. But I guess you can’t do much bluffing flying a plane! Either you can or you crash!’

His eyes clouded for a moment as he sipped his coffee with an appreciative grimace. ‘But the question you’d really like an answer to is why am I still alive and why is Prithvi dead in my place? And I’ll tell you, Joe, I’d like to hear some answers myself.’

‘Well, whichever of you was the intended victim — and we’ll examine that later — the method of killing may give some solid evidence. List for me, will you, the people who had the technical skill and the opportunity to cut through the elevator wires.’