The Maharajah's Monkey (10 page)

“Mulligatawny!” the Maharajah announced to our party. “I know how you Britishers love your mulligatawny!” He pointed at one large tureen in which churned a pool of brownish liquid, floating with odd, slimy things. Stomach churning.

“Most thoughtful, Your Highness,” simpered Mrs. Spragg. “Mulligatawny is just the thing in this awful heat.”

It might have been just the thing for her but I loathe mulligatawny soup.

Of all the curious dishes I have tasted in this country, it is the worst, a weak mix of the dregs of English and Indian fare. Sadly Indians are convinced that us “Britishers” love mulligatawny, though it is so watery and plain horrid my gorge rises when I taste it. I cheered up a bit when I saw the servants unpacking the trimmings that go with mulligatawny. Quartered hardboiled eggs, shredded vegetables, cold slices of curried meat, savory poppadom biscuits and so on …

“Mmmm,” I burst out, catching a hint of a delicious, sweet spicy scent.

It was the steam wafting from the Maharajah's huge plate of spiced rice. Arranged in small silver bowls around his plate were the condiments: sauces, chicken pieces, pickles, pastries, chutneys. My mouth watered
looking at the Maharajah's plate and I couldn't help another small gasp of hunger escaping. Rachel glared at me warningly; she was convinced that all India was trying to poison us. It is true the poor girl has suffered from the upset stomach called “Delhi belly” since arriving. But my stomach is made of cast iron! The Maharajah noticed my greedy look and made a surprised movement, as if to offer me some.

But Mrs. Spragg stepped in: “No, dear Kathleen,” she snapped. “That will be far too spicy for you. Better stick to plain English food.”

I was about to protest when my aunt saved me.

“My niece Kit and I love your Indian cooking,” she announced to the Maharajah. “We would be honored to try some of your fare. What is this?”

“Chicken biryani,” he said, beaming.

Though Mrs. Spragg looked cross, I got the feeling the Maharajah was pleased. Smiling, he waved a hand at the servants and soon heaped plates were set in front of me and my aunt. Sitting on silken rugs we tucked in. The rice was fragrant with the sweet tang of coconut and raisins. The curry sauce rich and dense and the pickles so hot they burned the roof of my mouth. All in all it was one of the most gorgeous meals of my life and I can assure you I did full justice to it. That is to say I polished off my plate of food and had seconds and thirds, managing
to ignore Rachel's doleful looks. Indeed Waldo, Isaac and my slightly nervous father joined us in the meal, though Mrs. Spragg and Rachel were extremely suspicious.

Perhaps some day I will open an Indian curry eating-house in Oxford, for I am as adventurous with strange foods as foreign lands. It will introduce those timid souls brought up on a diet of boiled vegetables and suet pudding to the tempting treats of the Orient.

After the main course came puddings and here I must confess to disappointment. We had round pale sweets that tasted a little of condensed milk and were called “barfis.” They weren't bad, better than the dry and crumbly orange things called “ludos.” Horrible. I must confess my mind went back to cook's treats: creamy sherry trifle, or her cake—oozing melting chocolate, rich and moist.

Indian main courses may be tastier than ours; but I am glad to say that their puddings are not a patch on British ones!

Too soon the meal was over and we remounted our palanquins. Our convoy of elephants moved on, heading into the thickest part of the jungle. We were under a dense cloak of palms and creepers that grew over our heads, almost cutting off the light. The elephants moved with difficulty, trampling their way through the undergrowth,
swinging their long tusks from side to side. Suddenly there was a screeching right next to my nose and a paradise flycatcher, exploded horizontally out of the bushes and zoomed away, trailing a blur of snowy tail feathers.

We were nearing the tiger hunt. The beaters had been out in force over the last few days, looking for tiger prints. They had spotted some in this part of the jungle and had tethered a live goat to a stake to attract the beast. They claimed it was deadly, a man-eater who had carried off a young girl from a nearby village.

We came to a clearing and the beaters gestured to us to be silent. The goat was chained to a stake by a tussock of grass on the edge of the clearing. Poor animal. All that remained of it was its head and a carcass, oozing blood. Only a savage creature could have done such damage to the goat. My breathing became more ragged, the thrill of the chase infecting me. Rachel, however, was disgusted. She turned her soft eyes on me and hissed:

“It didn't have a chance.”

“Hardly my fault.”

“This isn't about you, Kit. Imagine its agony.”

The chief hunter slid down our flank, followed by the Maharajah. Even here, in the midst of the jungle, he was a semi-captive, ringed by bodyguards alert for assassins.
Waldo, my aunt and I stalked after them toward the tussock. Isaac, Rachel and the others preferred to watch the hunt from the safety of their palanquins. We crept on cotton-wool feet, for tigers do not give you second chances.

The hunter reached the tussock and signaled to us to come no nearer. We stopped. I looked around. Out of the corner of my left eye, I caught a flash of orange in the midst of a thicket. Suddenly, something was surging toward me. Boiling eyes, ears flattened, claws outstretched. I lurched blindly as the tiger leapt at my face. A half-scream gurgled from my throat. I could hardly breathe. Choking, I cursed my aunt who had forbidden me to carry a gun. The Maharajah shrieked. Instantly his bodyguards clustered around him in a protective huddle, ignoring the tiger attacking
me
. A claw was at my face. It loomed before my eye as I cowered against the bush. A shot rang out. The claw fell, grazing my face. Another bullet went whistling past, so close it scorched my ear.

There was blood on my face. Then a thud on my feet. The tiger had fallen on to me, its body crumpling in a heap of black stripes.

“Thank you,” I sobbed, struggling away from the heavy beast, my left ear zinging from the bullet that had so nearly ripped it off.

The tiger was magnificent. It lay at my feet in death
agony, its powerful muscles pulsing under its orange hide. It would have crushed my skull with one blow.

“Waldo, you saved my life!”

“It wasn't me,” my friend yelled, wildly. “Where'd the shot come from?”

“Aunt Hilda?”

“Quiet, child,” she screeched.

Tension crackled in the air. The Maharajah's five bodyguards encircled him, their eyes swiveling from side to side, searching for the gunman. Mrs. Spragg's guard was at the side of the elephant where she was cowering in the palanquin. Somewhere, a twig crackled, setting my teeth on edge.

“Who fired?” I blurted. But almost as the words were out of my mouth another bullet spat out, whizzing past me. Heading straight for the Maharajah.

The Maharajah froze. Time hung suspended. The bullet was followed by another and then another. The bodyguards fired in wild panic. But these were like no normal bullets, they swooped and curved round the bodyguards. They made their way straight to the Maharajah, like pins flying to a magnet.

One bullet whizzed through the middle of the Maharajah's turban, leaving a blackened hole. Another bullet was within a whisper of his soft, plump throat.

The Maharajah howled, the screech of a scared
animal. His whole body trembled, in face of this bewildering splatter of death. But he didn't duck and he would have been killed if a bodyguard hadn't pushed him to the ground with the butt of his rifle.

My eyes desperately scanned the sprawl of bush, tree and creeper, the whole teeming jungle. The man with the gun could have been anywhere. In that neem tree over there, crouching behind that wild jasmine, anywhere in the dark of the encircling jungle. There might be a number of bandits attacking us, they might have led us here, only to surround us and pick us off at their pleasure. An ambush. Panic rose sour in my throat, as my eyes flicked this way and that. But nowhere could I see the glint of a hidden gun.

A roar came from behind me. I spun round. Waldo was screaming, holding his gun in front of him like a sword. He's been shot, I thought. I wanted to run to him, but my feet would not obey my brain. As I watched, frozen, Waldo raised his rifle and aimed at a large tree. It was a wild almond, sprayed with red flowers, like splatters of dried blood.

His rifle stuttered. A moment later a pistol fell out of the tree, followed by a dark figure which landed with a thud in a thorn bush. The Maharajah yelled, Aunt Hilda bellowed and the bodyguards continued to fire into the jungle. Scared out of their wits, the elephants made a deafening honking, which almost drowned out the rest of the commotion.

Finally my feet moved. I rushed to the wild almond, just a second behind Waldo, to see two brawny guards hauling a man to his feet.

A stick-thin figure, with a huge mustache, clad in a
grubby shirt and loincloth. He looked befuddled, eyes peering dully from above wrinkled brown skin. The guard slapped him viciously across the face. But he barely reacted.

I was hit by a horrible stench—the wild almond as pungent as an open sewer. I staggered back, reeling. Mingled with this stink was a more delicate scent: rich, flowery, sickly sweet. A mixture of jasmine and musk. A familiar smell.

Champlon!

I blinked and gazed at the man, hanging like a skinny rag doll from the bodyguard's hand. It couldn't be! But it must. Those curving bullets. No one in the world could shoot quite like our French friend.

I went up to the bodyguard and shook his prisoner by the arm. “Monsieur Champlon, it's me.”

Was I right? There was no flicker of recognition in the man's eyes. He was seemingly unaware—or indifferent to—the commotion all around him. But the mustache, the jutting nose—the Frenchman was unmistakable. Champlon's hand was dripping blood: the bullet had nicked one of his fingers. Why didn't he feel the pain?

Waldo gazed at the Frenchman and gave a grunt of surprise. “It's him,” he squealed. “That rotter Champlon.”

At that my aunt came scurrying forward and when she recognized Champlon such was her surprise that for
a moment I thought she was going to faint. But she pulled herself together and glared at him, trembling slightly. Suddenly, she slapped him.

“That's what you get for running out on me,” she hissed. “You rat!”

Champlon blinked in surprise, staring at Aunt Hilda without recognition. Aunt Hilda's lower lip had begun to tremble at his lack of reaction. She stared at him unblinking, but his gaze back at her was dull.

“Gaston! It's me!”

He was blank.

“Gaston. It's Hilda!” her voice broke. “Speak to me. Please.”

By now the bodyguards were roping Champlon's hands together, tying them so tight that the rope bit into his flesh.

The Maharajah held out his hand to Waldo, his moon face beaming:

“You saved my life.”

“No.” Waldo blushed. He was glowing with pride. “I mean … um … yes, but it was only—”

“A stroke of luck,” I interrupted, a bit meanly. But I could see how this would go to Waldo's head. He must have blasted the gun out of Champlon's hand! “Your Highness, that man is a sharpshooter. My friend has only just begun—”

“Hey,” Waldo bridled. “I
aimed
.”

“You are hero,” the Maharajah said, ignoring our tiff. He had a fluting sing-song voice, which rose over our squabble, like one of his own bulbuls. “It is because you are American, the New World they call it, no?”

Waldo nodded proudly. “It is a mighty fine country,” he said.

The Maharajah turned now to his dewan. But Aunt Hilda had intercepted the minister and was talking frantically to the king.

“I know this man, Your Highness,” Aunt Hilda blurted to the Maharajah. She towered over him, but despite his tiny, plump frame the boy king had dignity. “Something is wrong.”

“How can this be?”

“He is a Frenchman. A famous explorer.”

“He wanted to kill me.”

“There must be some mistake.”

“He will be execute at dawn tomorrow. Sonali will take care of him.”

“How do you mean?”

“She will crush him.” He brought one plump hand down, slap bang on the other. “His head will be crushed under her feet.”

I had a sudden, sickening vision of Champlon's head disappearing under the elephant's massive, trampling feet.

“No!” my aunt and father wailed in unison.

“Silence.” The bald Dewan held up his hand imperiously. “It is the law of the land.”

For a moment a hush fell on the scene, above which could only be heard the snorting of the elephants and the soft shushing and crackling around us. We could not let Champlon die in India, whatever he had done, so many miles away from his home.

“Your Majesty.” My aunt's gruff voice rose in desperate appeal. “Of course you must execute anyone who dares to threaten you. But something is wrong.
I know it
. Something is not right with this man …

“Look at him. Your Highness, he looks like a sleepwalker.”

“A what?”

“He is not himself. I know it.”

She had piqued the Maharajah's attention. He went up to Champlon and gazed at him closely and the Frenchman gazed back dully, as if nothing unusual was happening. As if he was at The Travelers, that famous gentleman's club in Pall Mall.

The Maharajah said, “This is strange.” He said something in his own language—which I have learned is called Gujarati—to the guards who were holding Champlon. They seemed to protest but a sharp word from the Dewan was enough to silence them and they undid the
ropes that bound the Frenchman, but remained close by his side. The Maharajah held out his hand and grasped Champlon's in a kind of handshake. “I have seen this in my village once, long time ago. Before I was Maharajah.”