Barbara Cleverly - The Palace Tiger

Joe nodded. ‘Savaged by a wild panther, I hear?’

‘In a nutshell, yes. The body was a mess, as you can imagine. The flesh was shredded, one arm torn off. . the beast must have been hungry — it had started to eat him. But, you’re a hunter, perhaps you are aware that a panther kills cleanly? One blow would have been enough to finish him off and I think I identified the lethal blow. To the throat. Where you’d expect it. The subsequent mangling looked dramatically hideous but practically all the wounds occurred after the poor chap was already dead.’

‘So the answer to Udai Singh’s question would be that his son did not suffer an unduly horrifying or protracted death?’

‘That’s so. But there’s something else. Difficult to tell with the destruction of tissue but there were signs that he’d taken a stiff dose of opium: pinpoint pupils, discoloration of the tongue. Now, Bishan wasn’t a complete fool. He took opium every morning, many Rajputs do — it’s hardly significant to them. Of as much note as this whisky we’re both enjoying.’ He waved his glass at Joe and offered to refill it. ‘It fortifies them for the day. But it doesn’t make them blind and deaf. On a normal day there’s no way Bishan would have failed to notice that the beast’s jaws were not sewn up and it still had its claws.’

‘But this was not a normal day?’

‘Well, it didn’t make much sense to me, the whole scene, so I called for his body servant, the chap who was always close to the prince in the morning, and questioned him. Easier said than done! These princes are surrounded by a retinue of servants, all apparently completely loyal to their master. Well, that’s Rajputs for you — they’ll defend their rulers whatever their faults. Anyway, I finally got hold of the right chap, gained his confidence and listened to what he had to tell me. . I say, I hope I haven’t muddied the waters?’

‘On the contrary, you did exactly the right thing.’

‘Good to hear you say so. Well, I asked him how much of the drug he’d taken. . made him describe Bishan’s routine. The servant confirmed that Bishan took his opium in the traditional local manner. Here. . Look.’

Sir Hector opened a drawer, took out a small object and put it into Joe’s palm. Joe studied the ball of dull yellow-grey substance with interest.

‘This is how it’s prepared for consumption.’

‘Nothing like this at Ciro’s,’ said Joe.

‘I’m sincerely glad to hear it! It’s been cooked in milk and sugar to counteract the evil taste.’

‘What on earth are you supposed to do with it?’

‘You take one of these,’ said Sir Hector, picking up an oval-shaped mortar. ‘I say, Sandilands, don’t assume that I always have the makings to hand, will you? I took the liberty of removing these from Bishan’s rooms. . You pop the opium ball into the mortar and crush it. Then you mix it with water, filter it and drink. It’s a lot faster and much more immediate than smoking it through a hookah which is an alternative.’

‘Where did he get it from? Who was his supplier?’

‘No mystery there. It’s not exactly on prescription, you know. You can get it in any bazaar but Bishan got his from a local tribe — the Bishnoi — who live further south near Jodhpur. They’re farmers, pacifists, nature-lovers, tree-worshippers, if you can believe.’

‘And purveyors of strange substances to the royal family?’

‘For generations. Apparently Bishan had been taking a mild formula for years and appeared to be accustomed to it and tolerating it reasonably well. But then, according to the servant, two days before he died, Bishan asked him to make up his drink using a different supply. He produced a box with three balls of opium and had one made up in the usual way. From its effects the servant assumed it was a stronger formula — it put Bishan on his back for half the day.

‘He recovered and, nothing loath, took a second shot at it the following morning. He was just compos mentis enough to follow his morning routine, including the panther wrestling, with lethal consequences. That ball of opium you’re holding in your hand is the third and last remaining sample of the special batch. It would be interesting to find out how he came by them. Not, I think, from the servant who had been most helpful. When he realized what I was suspecting, he began to panic. By this time, the chap was quivering with fear, naturally. Thought he might be suspected of being instrumental in something nefarious and might expect a visit from Ajit Singh and his merry men. I think I managed to calm him down and dismissed it as nothing important — just a physician’s curiosity. They all know I’m interested in Indian medicine so I think I covered my tracks.

‘I brought the samples back here and tested them and — sure enough — there was a difference. The new box contained pills incorporating a dose that would have almost paralysed anyone who consumed them.’ He paused for a moment and added, ‘If Bishan took one of those horse pills he would have entered the panther cage flying! He would have been so high he wouldn’t have noticed the beast until it tore his throat out and probably didn’t feel much even then. Yes, my answer to the maharaja’s question was — “No, sire, your son did not suffer.”’

‘But we’re left wondering why the presumed heir to the throne changed his formula?’

‘Exactly. On paper this is a clear case of death by misadventure. . but who supplied him with the opium that dulled his senses to a point where he would walk into that cage? The panther killed him all right. But who murdered him, Sandilands?’

A name was on the tip of Joe’s tongue.

The urge to answer the doctor’s question and indulge with him in a little fervid speculation was almost overwhelming. He sensed that Sir Hector would have been a lively co-conspirator, perfectly willing to listen to his outrageous suggestion and talk through it with him. A vision of Charlie Carter back in Simla came to Joe and he found he was missing the superintendent’s salty common sense and his local knowledge, missing his companionship and support. But silence, for the moment, was his only recourse. He fought back his own excitement at the laying of a further brick in the foundation of his theory. If he reasoned rightly, the enormity of his revelation would be such that it could only be allowed to reach the ear of one man: the man who held the invisible reins of power in India, the éminence grise behind the Viceroy — Sir George Jardine. But Joe was not yet so certain of the identity of the killer of the ruler’s sons that he could alert Sir George.

He was aware of the danger of building on one idea to the exclusion of all others and was determined that the seductive completeness and simplicity of his theory would not cut him off from other avenues of enquiry. He was frustrated by his powerlessness to conduct an investigation by the book. His brief restricted him to cruising around this alien crime scene, picking up bits of information from whoever was willing to divulge them. And he was not deceived — some of the facts and impressions confided to him might well have been as misdirecting and distracting as the swift brown hands of the child conjuror in Surigargh.

He sighed and thanked Sir Hector for his evidence and for sharing his concerns with him. He reassured him once more that his actions had been exactly what Scotland Yard would have approved and begged his continued discretion. As he prepared to leave, he was struck by a sudden thought. ‘Sir Hector, can you tell me. . not sure how intimate you are with the royal family. . can you tell me whether Bishan was married? What his family circumstances were?’