Barbara Cleverly - The Palace Tiger

Joe made to sit down on the stump of a tree but was hurriedly caught by the arm by Edgar. Edgar thrashed about with his stick removing leaves and debris from the roots and then, satisfied with his efforts, said, ‘Never sit down anywhere that you haven’t checked for snakes, Joe. These woods are crawling with hamadryads. . That’s all right. You can sit down now.’

‘Thanks, Edgar! Thank you very much!’ said Joe. ‘But I’ve changed my mind. Let’s get back to camp.’

The rest of the day passed equally smoothly, to Joe’s relief. Determined to make the most of this break from palace routine, the group, hunters and spectators alike, took on a cohesion and, he would have said, an identity. Perhaps this was what happened in the Boy Scouts or on a Chapel Outing. It was certainly what happened on the battlefield. But a shared deprivation did not feature in their experience under canvas. The guests were eager to share their approval of the rich appointments of their tents. No ground sheets here — they trod on silken Persian carpets. The folding campaign furniture was made luxurious by tasselled cushions, and those who had been dreading the discomfort of a latrine were pleased to note the provision of a personal, mahogany thunder box.

But, against the current of satisfaction and bonhomie, Joe felt, for no obvious reason, a thrill of unease as he looked round the lively faces gathered over the supper table. Colin, behind whom everybody had instinctively rallied and whose word everyone obeyed without question, had been entertaining them with tales of shikar. But the tales were more than entertaining and amazing, Joe realized, they were instructive and, in the best tradition of storytelling, the audience felt its own experience had been widened, its sensibilities deepened and perhaps its point of view adjusted.

Surprisingly, Ajit Singh, instead of being the inhibiting presence all had anticipated, joined in the after-dinner campfire storytelling, picking up and running with Colin’s accounts, adding a Rajput view or explanation, occasionally telling an ancient folk story of his own.

Stuart, who had never been on a tiger hunt before, was all flattering attention, joining with Joe in asking the right questions of the right person, bouncing the conversation along. This young American, Joe thought, would have been an asset at the dinner table of the Vosges château where his squadron had trained in notorious and enviable luxury during the war. His sister, however, was less congenial.

In the overwhelmingly masculine gathering, Madeleine was uncharacteristically restrained and staying firmly in her brother’s protective shadow. As she was paying no more than casual attention to Joe, he could almost have wondered whether he had imagined the intimacies of the previous evening. Madeleine was making no female alliance with the only other woman present. Rebelliously wearing a bush shirt and divided skirt topped off with a cowboy hat, she presented an interesting contrast with Shubhada who glimmered in a little dinner dress of midnight blue silk. Voluble and excited, the maharanee seemed to be enjoying the company of the men. Though her behaviour was never less than scrupulously correct, there was a quality about her which intrigued and puzzled Joe: an energy, an elation or satisfaction perhaps. The girl was certainly in a good mood. The thrill of the chase? She was said to be a keen hunter.

Bahadur too was enjoying the chance to be with a group of men he admired, and though not entirely confident of his status amongst them, his companions, by their conversation, let it be understood that all were gathered there in the lamplit clearing miles from civilization for a levelling and urgent purpose. No one felt it his duty to tell the young Yuvaraj it was past his bedtime and he sat on, listening with obvious pleasure until finally he summoned up his own body servant and declared his intention of turning in, recommending that the others follow his example.

Most were only too pleased, after their long hot day, to use this as a trigger for their own departure and soon, after much genial calling of ‘goodnight’, all had retired to their own tents, their way lit by the glow of the sinking fire and the torches of the night watch. Joe stayed awake for a long while, alert to the sounds of the forest around him and to the sleepy sounds of the camp settling down. He smiled to hear the doctor, whose tent was immediately opposite, gargling heartily before, with a final trumpeting nose-blow, settling to his bed. Bahadur’s tent was to Joe’s right, sandwiched between him and Colin and opposite Ajit. Joe heard him stirring about for quite a time after he had gone to bed, chattering with his servant and even sending the man off to the supply tent on some errand or other. Judging by the subdued snort of laughter on the servant’s return, Joe guessed he was clandestinely laying in a personal supply of the Swiss chocolate he appeared to have taken such a fancy for and he smiled indulgently.

The last muffled yawns and creaks petered out and Joe felt himself at last to be the only one of the party awake. The way he liked it to be. He was lying on his light-framed charpoy bed with its cotton-covered mattress, naked and damp from his tub wash, alert and anxious. He listened to the plink of frogs from the lake and the occasional yelp of a jackal. Twigs snapped and undergrowth rustled as night creatures moved stealthily by, skirting the clearing men had invaded. It was ridiculous that after the relaxed conviviality of the evening he should be left coiling with tension. Each time he tried to identify the cause of his disquiet he came back to the same disturbing thought: in his eagerness to arrive at a solution he had broken the first of his own most compelling rules. He had reached and even confided a conclusion before all the evidence was in. His suspicion of Udai Singh’s role in his sons’ murders was no more than that — and an outrageous suspicion! This was twentieth-century India after all, not fifteenth-century Turkey with the savage princely blood-lettings that accompanied every sultan’s death. The British Empire held sway, not the Ottoman. He had been over-hasty and all he could do now was hope that Madeleine would have the good sense to keep silent about the theories he’d confided to her. She’d only half believed him anyway, he told himself hopefully.

And if he’d supposed wrongly — and he rather thought he had — what did that imply for Bahadur’s security? ‘Bahadur, old chap, are you all right?’ he wondered silently. He also wondered if Colin and Edgar and Ajit were, like him, on watch. ‘Ceaseless vigilance, Sandilands!’ he told himself with a stabbing memory of a similar night on watch in Panikhat. He was still trying to turn it into Latin when he fell asleep.

In the depth of the night he woke, listening intently. The sound that had woken him — where had it come from? He feared for a moment that Madeleine might be crazy enough to pay him a visit but no one pulled aside the flap of his tent. In a moment Joe was on his feet and into his dressing gown and standing in front of Bahadur’s tent. He listened carefully and could have sworn that the odd noise he heard was Bahadur giggling.

‘Bahadur! Sir! It’s Joe Sandilands. Is all well?’ he called in a low voice through the flap.

‘Joe? Of course. Go back to bed! Much to tell you in the morning! When my trap has been sprung you will call me Bahadur the great hunter!’ More stifled laughter followed the puzzling remark and Joe crept back to his tent.

Emerging late the next morning, Bahadur looked subdued and avoided Joe’s eye. He avoided everyone’s eye. He joined them at the table with polite greetings all round but seemed unwilling to pursue a conversation. Joe would have put the bilious appearance down to a surfeit of chocolate had not Bahadur tucked into his breakfast with some eagerness. The boy brightened up a bit when Colin began his briefing, the last before the hunt began.