Dishonored (43 page)

Oliver dropped down next to her. “Bloody hell! You’re right. It’s here, this place!” He took the book and studied the page,
then he glanced up. “So? What does it mean? We’re here, what’s next?”

“Show me the verse.” Indi read the verse, then burrowed into the bag again. She pulled out her guide book and flicked through
it until she found what she wanted. She read, then looked at Oliver. “In the sixteenth century, the Moghul ruler, Mahmud of
Alwar, fell in love with a dancing girl. He wanted her in the palace but the Begum wouldn’t allow it so he built his mistress
a palace in the hills overlooking the city. He built her the most beautiful water garden to keep her cool up there in the
heat of summer and it says here that the remains of it can still be visited.” She laughed and dropped the guide book down
on the ground. “That’s it! The next place! That’s what the verse refers to, love, the giving of gifts.” She leaned in close
to Oliver to see the book. “It’s brilliant, isn’t it?”

Oliver smiled. “Yes, it’s very clever. What it all leads to, God knows.” He continued to look at the painting.

“What’s up?” Indi frowned. “You’re not satisfied, are you?”

“I don’t know, I…” He faced her. “I’m probably being silly but I can’t help feeling that there’s something else to it,
that it all means more than just the next clue.”

“Like?”

“Like the drawing is so intense, so beautiful and the verse is so specifically about love. I’ve just got a feeling, that’s
all.” He went to close the book. “Oh, and there’s this line here, in Hindi.” He read it out, stumbling over the words. “I
wonder what it means?”

“It means, two bodies, two hearts, one soul.”

Both Indi and Oliver spun around. “Ashok?”

Oliver jumped up.

“Yes, and you are right, Oliver, it does mean more. It is a line about creation, about conception.”

Indi caught her breath. Suddenly frightened, she stood up next to Oliver and felt for his hand. Oliver had been right, this
was far more dangerous than she had ever imagined.

“I am working for the Indian government,” Ashok said, “I have been following you for the last twenty-four hours. I know what
is going on and I must tell you that what you are doing is illegal. From this moment that book is Indian property. We work
together.”

Oliver felt Indi grip his fingers.

“So,” Ashok stepped out of the dark shadow of the wall. “I think you had better give it to me, if you want to do what is best
for you.”

J
OHN TIGHTENED THE KNOT ON HIS TIE AS HE SAT IN THE RECEPTION
of the Sotheby’s London offices. He had a copy of Country Life open on his lap but he couldn’t concentrate on it.
He was too anxious. It was Tuesday, he hadn’t been able to get through to Indi for days and this morning he’d had a call from
Captain Hicks. Brief and curt, he’d said they were both fine, and that Indi would ring when she could. John didn’t know what
to do. He was worried, even though he had no reason to doubt Captain Hicks. He felt a sense of danger, a strange intuition
and, if he hadn’t been over seventy, he might well have got on the next plane out to Delhi.

“Mr. Bennet?”

“Oh, yes?” He stood and hurried over to the desk.

“Mr. Wraughton is free now. Could you take the lift up to the second floor and his secretary will meet you at the lifts.”

“Certainly. Thank you, erm, this way?”

The girl on the desk smiled and touched her hair. He was damn good-looking, Mr. Bennet, she thought, she liked older men,
particularly the masculine, distinguished ones. “Yes, through the double doors there and the lift is on your right.” She looked
up hopefully. “Would you like me to show you?”

“No, thank you, it’s quite all right.” John turned. Flirting was always wasted on him; he wasn’t a ladies’ man. “Thanks,”
he called. “See you later.” He walked through the double doors and took the lift straight up.

“Ah, Mr. Bennet!” John thanked the secretary who’d shown him in and walked across to Wraughton. He was a young man, no more
than thirty-five, John guessed, academic-looking, with a dark suit and small round spectacles. The two men shook hands.

“Please, Mr. Bennet, have a seat.”

“Thank you.” John glanced around the room while Wraughton searched under the piles of paper on his desk for his notes. The
office was more like a study, it was lined with books, wall to wall, with papers, notes and photographs littering every available
surface.

“Ah, here it is.” Wraughton lifted a brown card folder from under a pile of books. “I’ve made my enquiries, Mr. Bennet, and
I’ve got quite a lot here for you.” He opened the file and took out some photographs. He sat down.

“The photos you sent me of the pieces in the British Museum looked vaguely familiar to me, only I couldn’t place them straight
away. So, I had a dig through our records. The work is very unusual, Mr. Bennet, it’s highly stylized and the quality of the
stones is rare. It’s excellent workmanship, more French than Indian, and it belongs to a man called Indrajit Rai.” Wraughton
passed across his snaps. “We’ve had a number of pieces go through our house, Mr. Bennet, these two here for example, several
years ago.” John glanced down at the photos. “I’ll give you a bit of the history shall I?”

“Please.”

“Indrajit Rai was well known for a number of years in the nineteenth century, he was a royal jeweler, served many of the royal
houses of India and, indeed, several of his pieces ended up with Queen Victoria. We in fact saw quite a bit of his work brought
over here during that period. However, his work then disappeared for a number of years, fifty years or so I think… Let
me see,” Wraughton checked his notes, “yes, nothing came out of India from him up until the early twentieth century.” He shrugged.
“I’ve no idea why, he maybe had money problems, retired, that sort of thing, but then in 1905 a number of pieces came on to
the market again, some of Indrajit Rai’s and some new pieces but very much in the Rai style. It turns out his grandson had
been building up the Rai house again and was producing superb jewelry which had found a market in Europe.” Wraughton passed
across another photograph. ‘These were part of the Duchess of Windsor’s collection, sold a few months back. She was quite
a fan of Rai’s work. To put it in perspective, he enjoyed something of the same reputation as, say, Cartier or Fabergé.”

John handed the photo back. “So what happened? How come I’ve never heard of Rai?”

“Well, two things mainly. First, two world wars, Rai wasn’t European and it was terribly difficult for them to break into
the European monopoly on fashion after the war, plus the company diversified, went into other things, built up other business
interests. And secondly, and this is the main reason I think, the company suffered huge financial losses in the sixties. Just
as the rest of the world was enjoying a boom economy, and houses like Cartier went on to become almost household names, the
house of Rai was practically bankrupted. They lost millions!”

“How?”

“Well, to be honest I’m not really sure. It was difficult to get a real account of what happened; it was a private company
with very diverse investments and we only dealt with the jewelry side.” Wraughton looked at his notes. “I did ring the man
who previously did my job, though, he’s retired now, lives in Wittering. I was kind of fascinated by the whole thing,” he
smiled, “and, to be honest, Mr. Bennet, I’ve had a few pieces from the house of Rai come through us over the past year so
I wanted to find out what had really happened, get the picture in focus, in case any more pieces came up.” Wraughton took
off his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose, then he slipped them on again. “Apparently, according to my colleague,
it’s run by a cousin of Rai’s now. The youngest Rai son was involved in some kind of swindle back in the sixties and that’s
when the business was handed over. The rumor goes, and it is just rumor as far as I can gather, the house of Rai had been
working for the maharajah of Baijur, one of the last royal houses in independent India, making copies of his family’s jewels,
extensive copies, during the troubles with Pakistan.” Wraughton stopped. “Are you all right, Mr. Bennet?”

John nodded. He had started at the mention of Baijur, it had thrown him for a moment. He cleared his throat and said, “Fine,
thank you. Please, do go on.”

“Well, Baijur is near the border, and the maharajah was concerned about political stability. Anyway, apparently the house
of Rai made copies of everything, the family’s entire wealth and the son, trusted friend of the maharajah, etc, was supposed
to hide the real loot. But he ran off with it! He disappeared, vamoosh, never to be seen again. Him and all the loot!” Wraughton
shook his head. “The family, the house of Rai had to pay it all back and that’s what was supposed to have bankrupted them.
It’s a hell of a story, isn’t it?” He smiled and sat back in his chair. “If you can believe it of course!”

“You don’t?”

Wraughton shrugged. “It’s an Indian tale, a story. I’m not sure I’d take it too seriously.” Again he smiled. “According to
my colleague, the son wrote down where he’d hidden the loot, but needless to say, no one’s ever found his notes!”

John swallowed hard. “No, quite.” His heard was pounding and he’d begun to sweat.

“Though God knows what anyone would do to get their hands on that piece of paper,” Wraughton joked. “If it did exist!” He
stopped smiling. “Erm, Mr. Bennet? Are you sure you’re all right?” Wraughton got up and buzzed for his secretary. “Can I get
you some water, Mr. Bennet?”

“Yes, yes please.” John wiped his face with his handkerchief, then put his head down between his knees. He had never felt
dizzy in his life before. He tried to breathe evenly.

“Mr. Bennet?” He felt someone touch him on the arm. “Mr. Bennet, your water.”

“Thank you.” John sat up. He took a deep breath and sipped the water. “That’s better. Sorry.” He placed the glass on the desk
and his hands were trembling. “It must be the heat in here.”

Wraughton went immediately to open the window.

“Thanks.” John looked across at him. “Would you know when all this happened? The disappearance and all that.”

Wraughton came back to the desk. “I don’t think so.” He flicked through the notes. “Oh, wait! Here, I’ve got a note that says
some time around the beginning of 1966.” He shrugged. “How true that is I have no idea.”

John finished the water. He stood. “Thank you, Mr. Wraughton,” he said, “you have been extremely helpful.”

“I have?”

“Yes, extremely helpful.” John held out his hand. “I appreciate it.”

“No trouble at all, Mr. Bennet. I’ve enjoyed the research.”

John nodded at the secretary and walked toward the door. He stopped and looked back. “Did this Indrajit Rai come from Bombay
or Delhi by the way?”

“Neither,” Wraughton answered. “Don’t ask me why, but he always lived and worked in a small city north of Delhi. An odd little
place, Moraphur, famous for nothing!”

John shivered. “Except the mutiny,” he answered

“Yes, of course, except the 1857 mutiny!”

“Goodbye, Mr. Wraughton,” John said. “And thank you again.”

“Goodbye. It was a pleasure.”

John walked down to the lifts and stood watching the lights on the panel while he waited for it to come up. He felt in his
top pocket for his credit card holder. Bugger being over seventy, he decided, stepping into the elevator. He would be on the
next plane to Delhi and nothing was going to stop him. Indi was in danger and he was damned if he was going to lose another
daughter in that God-forsaken country.

Indi stood with her back to the hills and looked inward, across the fort, to Oliver’s figure, high up on one of the parapets,
the rising sun to his left, the dawn sky streaked with its light, fading purple, burning orange. She watched him for a few
minutes, solitary and motionless, and felt an ache in the pit of her stomach, a familiar ache, longing. She wanted him, she
knew that, she wanted to love him but she couldn’t, she couldn’t let herself do it, not now, not until… She saw him move
toward the steps to come down and quickly looked away. Maybe not ever. She just didn’t know, she didn’t know anything any
more. So how could she possibly know about love?

“Indu?” She glanced to her right, her thoughts interrupted.

“Ashok.”

The Indian came to stand beside her and they both turned to look out at the hills. “We are stuck, are we not?” he asked.

“Yes, I think we are,” she answered. “I’m sorry.”

“So am I.”

They stood in silence for a while. For five days they had worked together now, Ashok, Indi and Oliver, they had found the
pattern, uncovered the clues and ended up at the fort, the Tiberis Fort, thirty miles from Baijur, high up in the hills, the
last place, the last clue.

“What are we to do?”

“I don’t know,” Indi said, “I wish I did.”

Ashok turned to face her. “Indu, I have something that I must tell you,” he said, “something that I have not been honest about.”

Indi shrugged. She had been angry and disappointed at Ashok’s revelation several days ago but she was unable to dislike him.
He had been clever and resourceful in their search, kind even, and in different circumstances he might have become a friend.
“Forget it,” she said. “You don’t have to tell me anything.”

“Yes, I do.” He dug in his pocket and pulled out a photograph. “Here, please look. It is my wife-to-be,” he said, smiling
and holding it out to her. “Please.”

Indi took the photo. “She’s very beautiful, you must be very proud.”

“I am.” He took the photograph back and carefully placed it in his pocket again. “Indu,” he took a deep breath, “I am not
a government official, I have lied to you. This is not an official investigation, it is personal, it is something that has
to do with my family.”

Indi watched his face. She knew he wasn’t lying and it shocked her. “What has it to do with your family, Ashok?” She bit her
lip. “I think you’d better tell me, now.”

Ashok flushed. He didn’t know where to start. He hesitated for a few moments, then said, “My father died when I was just born,
Indi; my mother went to her husband’s uncle, the only man in her family, she was one of five sisters. This man took her in,
Dr. Bodi Yadav, he cared for her and me for my first two years, I called him uncle. In 1966 he became involved in a great
scandal here, in Baijur. It ruined him, my family were dishonored, they never recovered.”