Barbara Cleverly - The Palace Tiger

He fell silent and then said quietly, ‘And there’s the rub. You can’t get around or past that, can you, Joe?’

‘You’re right, Edgar. There’s something missing. . something I haven’t seen. A piece of this jigsaw’s fallen on the floor and no one’s noticed. But it doesn’t stop us building up the rest of the picture.’

Doggedly, he went on, ‘She didn’t do it alone, you know.’

‘Claude? I had wondered.’

‘I think he did the killing. As soon as everyone was installed on their machan I think Claude came down to the thicket. Shubhada found a way of getting Bahadur to climb down. May even have told him to take the opportunity of having a last pee in a nanny-ish sort of way. While she takes the baghnakh out of her gun case — it didn’t travel with the other luggage, she kept it with her all the time — and throws it down, Bahadur goes or is dragged into the thicket. He has time to cry out once and attempts to draw his revolver. No good against tiger but it would have stopped Claude in his tracks if only he’d been faster. Claude kills him. A quick stab and then he rakes over the small exit wound with the claws.’

Joe hesitated for a moment, ordering his thoughts. ‘And this is what chills the blood, Edgar — he took the precaution of pressing the device into the ground a few times to create spoor in case anyone should be looking, so when Hector examined the wound. .’ Joe’s voice trailed away.

‘He found bits of sand and grass? Nothing if not thorough, the Resident.’

‘As you say. Then the baghnakh and the knife disappear back into the gun case and Claude goes back to his tree. He shoots and misses the tigress to establish that he’s there in position and the hunt progresses. As soon as she hears the all clear, Shubhada starts to whistle and when we come bursting in we see Claude, bloodstained, dishevelled and distraught. And every reason to be.’

‘Distraught yes. But calculatedly so,’ said Edgar. ‘Remember the mad way he went for Ajit? Makes sense now. He was establishing in our minds the assertion that Ajit had been away from his machan or failing to shoot at the vital time. Spreading suspicion of neglect. It would have worked.’

‘It was meticulously worked out,’ said Joe thoughtfully, ‘and yet. . and yet. . it could all have gone desperately wrong. How thrilled and surprised they must have been when a second tiger strolled on-stage unexpectedly. Played right into their hands!’

‘I’m surprised Claude didn’t take the easier way out and just shoot his victim,’ said Edgar. ‘Easy enough to fake a shooting accident. Heaven knows — they crop up naturally all the time!’

‘I had noticed that Claude was paying close attention when I was telling Ram about ballistics. I think he even questioned me on the ease with which we could now obtain bullet profiles by simply sending the evidence off to Calcutta for analysis. I can almost feel sorry for him! He’d probably planned an accidental death by stray bullet and then, suddenly finding a smarty-pants police officer was going to be up the next tree, had to change his plans dramatically.’

‘All the same — with the help of Shubhada and her acting abilities they damn nearly carried it off. Would have done if it had been left to you and me, old boy!’ said Edgar. ‘They hurried off before everyone else — with every appearance of bad feeling, did you notice? — to replace the weapon in the armoury having given it a good cleaning the night before. But why? It still leaves me asking — why the hell should they do this?’

‘I’m nearly there. Tell me, Edgar, did you see the joke Colin played on Bahadur to teach him a lesson? The tiger’s paws in the flour outside his tent?’

Edgar smiled. ‘We all saw it. Just the sort of thing the lad appreciated. Would have appreciated. Didn’t seem particularly amused on this occasion.’

‘That’s because his own trap had been discovered and dismantled before it could be sprung. He was disappointed and sulking.’

‘Trap? What trap?’

‘I heard him stirring about in the night. He sent his man off to the supply tent for what appears to have been a sack of flour. When I asked if he was all right — I heard him laughing and checked on him — he said something mysterious about Bahadur the hunter’s trap being sprung and he’d tell me about it in the morning.

‘What he did with the flour was creep about spreading a layer of it outside Claude’s tent. He thought that he’d get up early in the morning and check for spoor.’

‘Good God! He was expecting to find a trail of footprints from someone else’s tent to Claude’s! Shubhada. She was at the end of the row. . she’d have had to cross the flour to reach his tent — had she been stupid enough to try! Do you suppose Bahadur suspected something was going on before you did?’

‘Yes, I do. He’d spent the last few months living rough about the palace, sleeping here and there, hiding in corners. He was clever and pretty devious himself. He’d learned all about life and intriguing — survival too — from the zenana. I think his mother must have been a bigger influence on the boy than people allow. Perhaps she even marked his card. If anyone could have observed an intrigue and known how to interpret what he saw correctly, he was the most likely. And having guessed — well. .’

‘Blackmail. Power,’ said Edgar.

‘No wonder he was so full of confidence immediately after he was declared Yuvaraj. Not only was he Prince in Waiting, but he had his prospective co-regents where he wanted them. And I’m sure he made them well aware of it. No waiting involved for Bahadur. I think he told them what he knew and what he intended to do about it if they didn’t toe the line. They made their plans well before the hunting trip. The flourish with the flour was a bit of naughtiness — a practical demonstration of the power he had. Now what would have happened if he’d carried out his threat and told his father what was going on?’

Edgar’s shoulders quivered with exaggerated horror at the question. ‘Rather not think about it, old man! Yes, perhaps they did the only thing they could do. Committing a murder and losing their potential power would have been infinitely preferable to the appalling consequences had he spilled the beans to Udai and been believed.’

‘But there’s still something I can’t get at,’ said Joe.

‘That missing piece? It’ll come. Let’s concentrate on putting what we’ve got on the table into some sort of order.’

An unwelcome thought struck Edgar. ‘And what about the other deaths? Bishan? Prithvi? You’re not suggesting that — ’

The door opened and their names were called. Sahibs Troop and Sandilands made their way in to have their last interview with a dying prince.

Already in an agitated state, Edgar hurried forward, his grief obvious, in response to the wide gesture of Udai’s outstretched arm.

‘Edgar, my friend! Time to say goodbye, I think. Not much time — though I must agree with. . is it Tagore?. . when he says, “The butterfly counts not months but moments and has time enough.” How trite death makes all such pronouncements sound, even the simple heartfelt ones!’

Elegantly clad in an achkan of white brocade, pearls draping his silken turban, he was lying on a divan, a glass of whisky at his elbow, looking, Joe thought, as bright as a bee, as urbane and welcoming as the hostess at an eighteenth-century literary salon. Voltaire himself must have been greeted in the drawing room of Madame du Deffand with just the same charm, full of subtle flattery. In the place of the small group of musicians gently playing a keening melody, Joe almost looked for the young Mozart at a harpsichord. But the image dissolved at the sight of the symbolic pile of straw by the window and the two Rajput footmen who stood grimly by to place their prince on it when his last minutes came. In a far corner, the old scribe turned from his table to smile and nod.