The Game (52 page)

Then I left them and ran.

When I reached the main road, I halted, listening to the loud neighs of horses and the slamming of stable-doors, followed by more whinnying and snorting and the clatter of escaping hooves coming towards me, quickly drowning out the shouts of running men. I knew without thinking that these horses would be riderless, that the O’Haras would have taken others and ridden west, leading at least some of the guards away from the air field. Somewhere out there, God willing, they would slip down from the animals and hunker into hiding, for an hour or a day; sometime, God willing, they would make for the hills, and leave Khanpur at last.

I waited just long enough to meet the stampeding horses. As they neared, I jumped from the northern edge of their path, waving my hands to frighten them into a mad gallop south, before I spun around to beat my own hasty retreat north.

The two miles to the air field seemed twenty, but at last my feet hit the smooth runway, and faint sounds led me to our intended escape vehicle. The corrugation of its sides suggested that it was a Junkers—not, thank God, the three-engined monstrosity I’d seen parked to one side. Rather, it seemed to be the same F13 we’d arrived here in, and indeed, a glance inside confirmed it. I helped Holmes bind our now-mumbling prisoner into a seat. Goodheart was seated at the controls, muttering and cursing under his breath.

“I hope to Hannah this crate’s got enough gas to get us out of here,” he said grimly. “No time to check. Where the hell’s the starter, anyway? Hey, I need somebody to undo the ties and take the blocks out from the wheels. And for God’s sake stay clear of the propeller.”

I jumped down to loose the ropes and kick away the chocks, then climbed back onto the wing to await further instructions. Clearly, Goodheart knew what he was doing, and as far as I could see, he was not in any need of an encouraging revolver at the back of his neck. Holmes and I made sure that we were never both out of the aeroplane at the same time, but Goodheart seemed oblivious as he checked the instruments by the light of the aeroplane’s torch, tapped their glass faces and swore at them and threw switches.

As I crouched near the door, my mind’s eye visualised the panicked horses slowing and being rounded up; the guards finding that we were not on their backs; the guards returning to the stables, where some would follow the lake-shore west in the footsteps of the O’Haras, while others came north to find . . .

My brain snagged on some unrelated imagery, spitting up an alarm composed of: horses, running loose; cows, wandering loose; cows, being chased from the road in Hijarkot—

“How do we know the runway is clear of animals?” I asked.

“Oh God,” Goodheart groaned, and pounded a dial with his fist. I took that as his answer.

“Holmes,” I said into the dim interior. “If we are discovered, get the maharaja away. I’ll make my way to Hijarkot.” I slid down the wing to the macadamized ground before he could object.

The moon was brushing the western mountains, but I could see well enough to follow the smooth river of air strip that cut between the rough grassland on either side. I didn’t know just how much distance the aeroplane needed before it took to the air, but with four people on board, I decided to be conservative, and checked for sleeping bullocks all the way to the end. I found no bullocks, no living thing at all, but halfway back, there appeared to be some dark, tall shape near the machine’s left wing. I held up a hand to block the faint light from Goodheart’s cockpit torch, and it was still there. Not moving, and just the one, but it was the shape of a man.

I pulled the revolver from my pocket and crept forward, wishing there was something I might hide behind: If the moonlight was sufficient to illuminate him, it would betray me as well.

The man did nothing until I was perhaps fifty feet away. And then he spoke.

“I say, is there something on?”

“Who is it?” I demanded.

“Jack Merriam. Er, the pilot?”

I straightened. “Ex-RAF?”

“Right-o. Is the maharaja on one of his stunts?”

“You might say that.”

“You need me to turn on the runway lights?”

“That would be most excellent.”

“Happy to. I do wish he’d tell me when he’s planning one of these night jaunts of his. I wouldn’t have to turn out when I heard noises.”

“This was somewhat spur-of-the-moment. But I’ll mention it to him.”

“I don’t mean to complain. I’ll get the lights, won’t be a tick.”

When I tumbled back through the open door, I found Goodheart’s torch off.

“Who the hell was that?” he hissed.

“The pilot. He’s turning on the runway lights for us. Would that be helpful?”

“Helpful? I thought I’d be doing this by torchlight. Thank God for the Brits. Hope the fellow doesn’t get into trouble.”

“Too late to worry about that.”

True to his word, the pilot illuminated our abduction of his employer. The bank of lights flared on, one block at a time, glaring onto the clean, smooth surface. Our engine caught, the propeller began to turn, and Goodheart pointed its nose between the twin rows of spotlights and revved the engine. We began to move, then to bounce, and on one of the bounces we hesitated briefly, then rose.

But our escape did not go unrecognised by the men we left behind. The guards must have been near the air field even before the lights attracted their attention, because we’d only been airborne a few moments, and were about to bank around the high trees at the end of the runway, when the roar of noise within the machine changed in some indefinable way, and the air blew into our faces in a manner it had not before. I suddenly could see light from the runway, spilling in three clear circles punched through the floor.

“The fools—they’re shooting!” Holmes cried.

My body tried to crawl into itself, although there could be no escape, either from being hit directly, or from going down in a ball of flame. But Goodheart banked hard then, and the change in our outline, or the increased distance from their guns, or even their belated realisation that they might also be shooting at their prince, meant the end of it: No more holes appeared in the thin metal skin. When the plane’s wings had levelled out and we were aimed south, I uncurled to pat our waking prisoner from head to toe. It was a huge relief to find him unwounded: Explaining an abducted maharaja was going to be hard enough; a dead one might present real problems. The man himself appreciated neither concern. He glared at me over his gag, drugged and drunk still but angry; I checked his bindings and went back to Holmes.

“He’s all right. Where are we heading?”

“I don’t suppose you know if the British encampment has a parade grounds?”

“I should very much doubt it, in these mountains.”

“Then it’s Hijarkot.”

I sighed, foreseeing the hell that would break loose the minute we set down with our kidnapped maharaja and no authority, no legal stance, no Geoffrey Nesbit to explain.

I leant forward to yell into Holmes’ ear. “Mycroft is going to be absolutely mortified when he finds out that his sources misled him regarding Goodheart.”

“These amateurs,” Holmes bellowed back, wagging his head in mock disapproval. “They present a continuous obstacle to the smooth running of the world.”

Holmes shifted, intending to head forward and help Goodheart navigate his strange aeroplane across an impossible route between a place where men were shooting at us and a place where we would be unable to set down, over seventy miles of invisible and terrifying mountainside, by nothing but the fading moonlight. As he stood, I caught at his elbow and pulled him back so he could hear me.

“The next time Mycroft asks us to do something,” I shouted to my husband, “we really must tell him no.”

Chapter Thirty

I
t took three days to fetch Nesbit out of his hiding place near the
border of Khanpur, days we spent holed up in the nondescript villa amidst the corn while messages of outrage and command heated the telegraph cables between Delhi and London. More than once I thought we should have to make good our threat to use the variety of guns we had found in the house; more than once, the maharaja came near to escape. If nothing else, the period proved to our satisfaction that Thomas Goodheart was on the side of the angels. Or at any rate, on the same side as Sherlock Holmes and his wife.

But on the third day, a tired-looking Geoffrey Nesbit rode into the front garden on an even tireder horse, and the machinery of government began to mesh again. That evening, the maharaja of Khanpur was quietly taken into custody to await His Majesty’s pleasure in the contemplation of crimes against the Crown and the people of Khanpur, and for the first time, we slept the night through, no patrols set, no rifles at our sides.

We did not, I am sorry to say, see Kimball O’Hara or his son again. But the following afternoon, as we prepared to leave Nesbit’s villa, my eye was caught by a flash out of the hills to the east. I stood and watched, and it came again, and again.

Holmes had noticed it as well, and stood at my side, reading the flares long and short.

One long, three shorts: the letter B. Short, long, two shorts: L. Short: E. Three shorts: S.

Blessings of the Compassionate One,
said the message.

And with that, Kimball O’Hara went home to his high mountains, with his son, and his rosary, and his secrets.

Author’s Thanks

As this volume’s opening dedication was meant to indicate, the Russell books would not exist without the passionate dedication of li
brarians. I am particularly grateful to the staff at the McHenry Library of the University of California, Santa Cruz, who with endless good cheer unearth for people like me all those glorious treasures that are checked out once every thirty years, such as Malcolm Darling’s
Rusticus Loquitur,
a closely detailed account of his 1928 tour as Registrar for the Punjab Co-Operative Societies, or the 1924 treatise written by Sir Robert Baden-Powell (yes, the Boy Scout man) with that most evocative of titles,
Pig-Sticking or Hog Hunting
.

I also thank Gordon Werne, of the Hiller Aviation Institute, for his good-humored expertise regarding antique planes, and Sirdar Tarlochan Singh, Ph.D., for details of Punjabi life. And anyone who has read into the time and place will realize how much the present work owes to Peter Hopkirk, not only for his brilliant expositions of the Victorian cold war—“The Great Game”—but specifically for his identification of Kimball O’Hara’s birth date in 1875. For Hopkirk’s and other titles, see my website,
laurierking.com
.

(I ought perhaps to point out that none of my maps shows the precise location of the place Miss Russell calls “Khanpur.” Nor have I found it possible, after all this time, to determine which of the northern princely states she might have meant. An editor’s task is never easy.)

And as always, I thank my husband, Noel King, in this case for introducing me to his mad homeland, and for providing Russell with her Hindustani curses.

The Game
may be read as a humble and profoundly felt homage to Rudyard Kipling’s
Kim,
one of the great novels of the English language. If you, the reader, do not know the book, please do not delay that acquaintance. If you read it in childhood and remember it as a juvenile adventure, may I suggest another read?
Kim
is a book for any age.

And for those skeptics in the audience, yes, Kipling did indeed begin to formulate the idea of
Kim
during that precise period when Sherlock Holmes was in India.

About the Author