The Faraway Drums (34 page)

“Christ!” said Lathrop. “He’s gathering in all the hill States. Or trying to.”

“All the small ones, anyway. Go on, Karim.”

“Then Prince Sankar went down to the Old City. He went into a house off one of the bazaars and after a while a man arrived in a gharry, but I couldn’t see his face, he had his turban wound down over
it.
But I could tell he was a very superior person the way he brushed the coolies out of his way as he went into the house. He was there an hour, then he came out and drove away. Then Prince Sankar came out and went down to Mussoorie Street and into a house there. I asked a storekeeper who lived there and he said a
sadhu.
A holy man with much influence.”

“That’s all we want,” said Lathrop. “A combination of the princes and the
sadhus
. Go on, Karim. Where did Prince Sankar go from there?”

“I don’t know, sahib. That was when the men jumped on me. I was marvellously lucky to get away.”

“Indeed you were,” said Lathrop and patted the big foot sticking up under the sheet. “Jolly good work, Karim.”

Farnol shook Karim’s hand, putting the same pressure into the grip as he had when he had shaken hands with his father; he felt almost the same emotion. He would have been embarrassed to say he loved a man; but he knew he had more regard for this big cheerful Sikh than just that of the friendship between master and servant. Karim’s handshake was no less firm.

The two officers went out into the pearly morning light. Dust might hang over the rest of Delhi but not here above the tent city: the water-carts were already at work. Coolies, all of them in new white trousers and shirts, the best dressed they had been since birth, were sprinkling the new lawns. A pi-dog slunk up towards a kitchen tent and was chased away as if it were a whole pack of jackals. A man wandered about with a can of white paint and a brush held at the ready, as if looking for yesterday’s paint to fade or peel. India, or anyway this part of it, had never looked so immaculate. It was just unfortunate that assassins could not be laid to rest with water or paint.

“Well, now we have to think about where they’re going to try and kill the King,” said Lathrop. “I’ve got a motor car; and Hugh Stacey, who’s in charge of security, and I are going down the line to meet the King’s train. We’ll talk to H.E. about it.”

“About what? Cancelling the parade from the station?”

“Can’t do that. I’m sure the King wouldn’t hear of it—he hasn’t come all this way to deny the people a chance to see him. No, the parade will have to go ahead.”

“They could make their attempt anywhere along the route, then—” Farnol did not know Delhi as
well
as he knew the hills.

“Stacey and I think the worst risk will be along the Chandni Chowk.”

Farnol did know the Chandni Chowk, the street of jewellers and gold- and silversmiths, sometimes called the richest street in the world. The houses and stores along both sides of the street were backed by alleys into which any assassin could make his escape. And the street itself would be packed with spectators, a dense crowd that would be an unwitting accomplice of the killer.

“We’re going to be unpopular, but we can’t take any risks along there. Stacey started moving troops and police in there at dawn—H.E. brought in 4000 extra police from outside Delhi and Stacey is using all of them. Nobody will be allowed into any house on the Chowk after six a.m., not even if he lives on the street. There’ll be troops on the rooftops and there’ll be a policeman at a window of every house. They should all be in place by now.”

“One feels so bloody helpless . . . With all our precautions, they could still succeed. Especially if there’s a fanatic amongst them.”

“Someone like Mahendra, you mean? You’ve got to keep an eye on him.”

“Me? I’m not in the parade. There’s only a special troop from each of the regiments—twelve men, that’s all. My father couldn’t put me in—there’d be a hell of a stink from the other chaps if one of them had to be put out to put me in. I’ve been away from the regiment too long.”

“You’ll be in the parade, old chap. I’ve arranged that you ride as special escort to the Ranee’s coach. Mahendra will be riding with her.”

“Does the Ranee know I’m to be her escort?”

“No. But I don’t think she’ll mind—I gather she was an old gel friend of yours.”

Farnol threw back his head and laughed, glad to let a little tension escape him. “Some day, George, we must have a durbar of our own, just the chaps from the Political Service who’ve slept with Mala. We could have quite a roll-up.”

“Our sins are paying off. She won’t object if you’re riding behind her. Give her the eye occasionally, as if you’re promising to meet her tonight.”

“I’m going to ride behind her—that’ll be difficult. I’ll be looking right into the eye of Mahendra.”

“Just what we want. Well, I’ll see you at Salimgarh station. I’ll be coming on the royal train.”

“
Where will the King be in the parade? Is he riding an elephant?”

“No. He’s a stubborn bugger, they tell me. But then I guess all kings are . . . H.E. wanted him on an elephant, with a gold howdah and all the trimmings. But the King insists he’s going to ride a horse. He doesn’t seem to appreciate that the population out here expect a ruler to look like a ruler. Their Rajahs don’t lead parades on bloody nags. Give you a lift back to camp?”

“I’ll walk, George. I want to think a little.”

“Don’t let your train of thought get too long, Clive. That could lead you into absolute bloody despair. Keep your chin up, as they say. I’ve always wanted to meet the bugger who said that. Must’ve been some bloody desk-wallah who’d never seen strong sunlight. I lift my chin and I’m blinded.”

9

I

FARNOL WENT
to see Bridie before he rode into the Old City with the troop from Farnol’s Horse. “I’m sorry to be so early—”

“I’ve been up since six—I shouldn’t want to be late for a day like this. You look even better than last night! That turban—I thought only rajahs could get away with something as swanky as that.”

The green, gold and silver turban was indeed swanky. Farnol wore it with pride and a certain
élan
: Englishmen, being Empire builders, adapt well to the costumes of the conquered. “The trick is to remember to duck when you enter a low doorway. Will you be watching the parade?”

“Viola has arranged that. Somewhere close to the entrance to the King’s camp.”

He was glad she would not be somewhere close to the Chandni Chowk. “We’ll have lunch together, then watch the polo this afternoon.”

“Are you trying to tell me you expect no trouble this morning?”

He had to be honest with her; he could feel his worry showing on his face. “No. I’m trying to tell you I hope there’s no trouble this morning.”

She put a hand on his arm. “I hope so, too, Clive. Nothing would please me more than to be able to write a story that said everything went off beautifully, as planned. If it does, I already have the head for my story—The Glory of Empire.”

He smiled. “You’ve changed.”

“Maybe I’m carried away by the atmosphere. My editor will probably cut my story and my father will never speak to me again if he hears of it. But—” She laughed at herself: she tingled with martial tunes, foreign tunes. “I shall cheer for the King.”

“Save a cheer for me when I pass by.”

He
climbed up on to his horse, a black charger that stood seventeen hands. She looked up at him and gasped at the beauty of him. “Oh God!” she gasped. “It must never come to an end!”

He knew what she meant and he knew it could never last forever. He rode away with a heavy heart, for he felt no pleasure in being a symbol.

II

In a hotel, no Ritz or Grand or Perapalas, just outside the Old City, Zoltan Monday lay beside Magda and looked at the lazily whirling fan hanging from the cracked and stained ceiling. A portrait of Queen Victoria, the glass covering it spotted with fly-dirt, hung on the wall opposite the bed. He wondered why her portrait still hung there: didn’t the hotel management know there had been two monarchs since? Perhaps they had given up caring who reigned over them.

Magda stirred, opened one eye and smiled at him. Her whore’s smile: it delighted him and yet hurt, a constant reminder of how they had met. Then her smile died, she scratched herself vigorously and jumped out of bed. “There are fleas! I’m being eaten alive! Scratch my back!”

He was aware of his own discomfort; he got out of bed and stood beside her. “Scratch mine.”

They stood there, arms round each other: it was like some sort of erotic love-play. Then he held her to him and she felt him rising against her: the fleas had left
that
alone. “I’m not getting back into that bed, darling. I’m not going to share you with the fleas.”

“We’ll move out this morning.” A stiff member was full of optimism.

“Where shall we go? There isn’t a vacant room in Delhi. You must telephone Baron von Albern, ask him if he can put us up. No, I’ll telephone him. I think he still has an eye for the ladies.”

“If he saw you like that—” He was raw and spotted from flea bites and love bites. But he would still have been randy if he had been suffering from tiger bites. He loved her, and still he could not quite believe his luck.

Then there was a knock at the door. They both threw on robes and he went to the door and opened it. A bearer stood there, one who looked too smart and clean to be one of the hotel staff.

“Good morning, sahib. My master, the Nawab of Kalanpur, asks can you and your memsahib come to breakfast with him before he leaves for the parade to greet the King?”

“
Now? It is so early—”

“My master must leave at eight o’clock for the parade. If you could hurry, sahib—”

Fifteen minutes later the Mondays were outside the hotel getting into the gharry the Nawab had sent for them. Another gharry was hailed to carry their luggage; even if they had to camp out in the open Monday was determined they were not coming back to the hotel and its fleas. They drove at a smart clip through the already busy streets and fifteen minutes later were sitting down to breakfast in the Nawab’s personal tent. The Nawab was dressed for the parade: he made breakfast look like a State banquet. He ate a boiled egg only a little larger than the ruby stuck in the aigrette of his turban. Each time he leaned forward he had to put up a hand to keep his four rows of pearls out of his buttered toast. Magda, ravenous, gorged her stomach and her eyes.

“May we talk business, Mr. Monday? Does your wife mind? I am so rushed for time.”

Monday spread marmalade slowly on his toast, preparing himself. He had never expected to be doing any business with Bertie, this cricketing fool. Was the man going to offer him some price for Magda to replace the wife he had lost?

“My wife acts as my secretary, Your Highness. Please go ahead.”

“We should have had our meeting in Simla, but I was still awaiting instructions.” The Nawab smiled, wiped butter from his pearls with the napkin a servant handed him. “I am Mr. Brown.”

III

The royal train steamed into Salimgarh station, narrowly missing a pi-dog that the hundreds of troops, police, dignitaries and lackeys, all standing at attention, had not been able to prevent from intruding. Shite hawks sat on the platform roof, looking for offal amongst all the pomp, and some ravens croaked a counterpoint to the band as it struck up
God Save the King
. The royal carriage pulled up at exactly the right spot and the King and Queen stepped out on to the carpet that had been laid for them. His Excellency Lord Hardinge, the Viceroy, following on, remarked that the King stepped off into exactly the middle of the carpet. He was not a superstitious man, but he took that as a good omen for the rest of the morning.

Outside the station the parade stretched away, two or three miles of precedence. Lathrop, astride his horse immediately outside the station, kept turning his head, looking for—what? Would it be someone
throwing
a bomb? A sniper with a rifle? Some madman with a knife, willing to sacrifice his own life as he took the King’s?

The royal party came out of the station. The Viceroy, with his long face and high forehead that only seemed to accentuate his height, towered over the monarch he represented here in India; he had the diffidence and respect to stand a little apart so that the King would never fall in his shadow. The King looked at his horse.

“It’s rather small, isn’t it, Hardinge?”

“We had to be sure it was one that wouldn’t play up, sir. I’m told this one is an ideal mount for the occasion.”

The King mounted the horse, adjusted his plumed topee, pulled down the front of the field marshal’s red jacket that made him indistinguishable from the other generals around him. Then he looked up at the tail figure of his Viceroy on a horse almost two hands taller. Perhaps he should have ridden an elephant after all.

“We’re ready, Hardinge. Let’s start.”

“That’s the Gate of Elephants up ahead, Your Majesty. All the Moghul emperors entered Delhi through that gate.”

“Will everyone appreciate the tradition of my doing the same?”

“Of course, sir.” But Hardinge was glad he did not have to put a number to the tradition-minded.

Further down the procession, out of sight of the royal party, Farnol sat his horse beside the Ranee’s coach. She looked out at him from under her cap of diamonds and smiled. “Clive darling, we must be more discreet. What would the King say if he knew we were meeting like this?”

“Whore,” said her brother sitting opposite her.

Farnol managed not to look at Mahendra, though he knew the latter was staring at him. “George Lathrop just felt you should be looked after.”

She smiled without being coy: coyness can disfigure some women and she would never risk that. “You two have been exchanging memories—”

He smiled, then looked at Mahendra who was about to say
Whore
again. “Keep your mouth shut, Bobs. You’re not in Serog now.”

For
a moment it looked as if Mahendra was about to spring out of the coach at him. He half-rose; then abruptly the coach started up. He fell back into his seat and half-lay there glaring back at Farnol as the latter moved his horse in behind the coach. The procession began to move, stretching itself into an immensely long concertina of pomp and vanity and privilege. The crowd stood on either side of the road and cheered, because it was the only sound they could make together. Nobody had yet taught them to jeer in chorus.