The Maharajah's Monkey (14 page)

“Here it is!” I said triumphantly holding up the box for everyone to see. The lid had been removed, there was white powder inside.

“That's not poison,” Edwin spat. “I like my lemonade extra sweet. It's sugar.”

I had a horrible moment of doubt. Had I made a fuss in front of all of these people for nothing? Then I gathered my courage.

“Eat some then!” I held out the box to him. “A spot of sugar, Edwin?”

Edwin blanched, backing away so quickly that he knocked over his chair. Down the table Mrs. Spragg let out a deafening scream and her husband hurried to her aid.

“This isn't the first time Edwin's played tricks like this,” I said but my words were drowned out by the Dewan who had risen magisterially to his feet.

“ENOUGH!” he thundered. “Memsahib Spragg, we are leaving.” He held out his hand to me for the silver box. “We will test this powder. If we find your son has been up to mischief …” He paused and glared at the Spraggs. “We will not be happy!”

The Maharajah, who I noticed cast a disappointed look at the feast, rose and the rest of the party followed, in a confused huddle. Indignation was in every inch of the Dewan's back as he marched out of the dining room, Mrs. Spragg opened her mouth to protest and then changed her mind. The boy's face was as innocent as ever, but he couldn't resist snarling at me. I gave him a sunny smile in reply.

I could afford to be friendly, now I'd finally wreaked revenge on the little pest.

My friends chattered about Edwin as our horses raced back to the palace. I joined in for a bit, savoring my triumph over the appalling boy. Then my thoughts moved on. The odd incident had cleared my wits and thrown the intrigues surrounding us into sharper focus. The fragment of Father Monserrate's journal I had read about Shambala fascinated me. It was such a haunting account: a mountain paradise, serene above the turmoil of the world. Cliffs as sharp as razors, snowy glaciers and then—appearing through the mists—an ice city set in flower-flecked meadows. A place of peace, and of plenty.

I had visions of this mountain bower, shimmering in the air above me. Beckoning to me. It was the Eden where Adam and Eve romped. Before Eve was tempted by the snake and mankind began its centuries-long descent into a swamp of greed and war, and, well,
badness
. Such a place was surely a myth? Yet, yet … I had a
feeling. My aunt and father were fascinated by the legend. There was some nugget of fact, some truth under all the swirling myths. My wounded map, safe in my inner pocket, called me. I felt the fact that it was torn as a pain inside me. Nevertheless, when I touched its crackly surface, a jolt started in my fingertips and ran along my nerves till it touched my heart. It wove a skein of enchantment that bound me like butterfly in amber. Whatever I was doing in India, this huge, heathen country, it had something to do with my map.

Have you ever had the premonition that something is waiting for you, just past that bend in the road? Not for anyone else. Just for you. It was foolish, irrational—but that was how I felt.

The scar on my cheek throbbed as I pondered. I had begun to feel less self-conscious about the mark—though I couldn't help feeling that people's eyes were drawn to it. Anyway, it was of no matter. What was important was the secrets piling up around us.

There was something my elders were not telling me. I couldn't help believing that Aunt Hilda and my father knew a lot more than I did. I tried to marshal my chaotic thoughts. To put them into categories: A, B, C:

A. The deposed Maharajah, Malharrao.

B. The monkey.

C. The two wheezing, sick Baker Brothers.

D. The blackmailed, supposedly hypnotized, Gaston Champlon.

What on earth brought them to India? Why had the gang blackmailed Champlon to kill little Sayaji? I could see, of course, that the Baker Brothers hated Champlon. I could understand Malharrao's interest in assassinating his successor. But why would those fabulously wealthy millionaires, the Baker Brothers, be interested in the fate of Baroda, this faraway part of our Indian Empire? Was it gold, diamonds, jewels? Was there something in the treasury they wanted to get their hands on? Try as I might I could not see what they wanted with this dusty, teeming place.

Unless it was
my
map.

Their monkey had snatched away half of it.

Yes, that was it. It wasn't pearls or the Star of the South. It must be my map they were after.

I shivered, despite the afternoon heat, which was so intense my clothes were damp with perspiration. The map, all these happenings, had taken such a hold on my imagination that I was exhausted. We arrived back at the palace lodge with me in a sort of daze and I trooped off to my bedroom. It was such a relief to finally be alone to try and sort out my thoughts. In my cool room, with
the tick of the clock and the soothing whisper of the fountain in the gardens outside. Sighing, I took off the formal shoes I had put on for the Spraggs's lunch and collapsed on the bed.

Too soon there was a knock on the door. It was the pani-wallah, the same boy who had waited on Champlon. He bowed and indicated I should follow him.

I followed the boy through the gloomy corridors. Suddenly we heard raised voices, saw two people standing very close together. It was Miss Minchin and the Maharajah's tutor, unaware of our presence.

Mr. Prinsep tried to slip his arm round Miss Minchin's waist. “Listen.”

“No, Charles. Don't,” she hissed, pushing him away.

“I'm sorry I upset you. I—”

“Three whole years,” Miss Minchin interrupted. “Why, I'll be an old maid by then!”

“You'll always be young to me.”

“You expect me to believe that?” Miss Minchin snapped. There was silence for a second then her voice softened into sadness. “Why didn't you tell me?”

“I'm sorry.”

“Is that all you can say?”

“Father is no tyrant. When he finds out how I feel …” Prinsep's words trailed off.

“I'm not much of a match,” Miss Minchin said. She slumped against the wall, forlorn. “Just a penniless governess.”

I cleared my throat and they jumped apart. Blushing, I hurried past, following the grinning pani-wallah. He stopped before a huge, brass decorated door. Inside I found my aunt, Father, friends, the Maharajah and the Dewan already assembled. Prinsep and Miss Minchin crept in after me. Champlon had been roused from his sick bed to join the conference. It was an impressive gathering, which could not have been held in a grander setting. Another vast room, filled from floor to ceiling with leather-bound books. Clearly the library. I settled down on a wooden bench.

“The heroine of the hour!” the Dewan rose to welcome me. “Let us forget the bad business this afternoon and enjoy for a moment your triumph over the Spraggs.”

“Jolly good show,” the Maharajah beamed.

Only Waldo, who hates to see me “get above” myself, was frowning at the praise.

You have to enjoy yourself when you have the chance! I forgot the death-threat letter and the monkey and gave myself over to the sheer pleasure of irritating Waldo.

Everyone smiled, relishing the memory of the Spraggs's discomfort. The moment was gone too soon, as a grim expression settled on the Dewan's face.

“Plotting,” he said, “is the lifeblood of the palace.”

The Maharajah grinned sheepishly and a murmur went around the room.

“Normal people work and gossip, sleep and eat. We plot!”

The Dewan, though scarcely bigger than a normal boy, made an impressive figure. His bald head shone above his maroon silk kurta, as he began to pace back and forth, his eyes constantly flitting toward the young Maharajah:

“Many people want to murder our king. They disagree with the way he was chosen for his great task. They
think
they have purer royal blood or want to see their
own
sons on the throne. The palace is sick with plots and factions. I am the only one here who is one hundred percent for the Maharajah, because, you see, I have no sons. I am unmarried and my only tie is to him.

“But you must understand something. This plot was something new.”

The Maharajah sat on the bench listening; his childish face and liquid brown eyes impassive. How calm he was. He must have lived among this atmosphere of intrigue, with the constant fear of death, ever since he came to the palace.

“Imagine the planning that went into it. Someone—who we now know was Malharrao—traveled all the
way to England so they could kidnap Monsieur Champlon and mesmerize him into killing our young friend.”

I glanced furtively at Champlon, searching for signs of guilt at the mention of hypnotism. But he looked remarkably smug. What an actor that man was.

“Why?” Waldo interrupted. “Why go to all the trouble of kidnapping Champlon? There are others who could have done the job.”

Champlon, swaddled like a baby despite the heat, gave a smug smile: “I sink eet is obvious,” he said.

“Not to me,” Waldo put in.

“Our French guest is famous,” the Dewan answered. “He is one of the world's best marksmen.”

“Ze best,” Champlon said firmly.

“One thing I pride myself on is our soldiers,” the Dewan continued. “Our young Maharajah is guarded day and night. It is well-nigh impossible to get to him. The plotters clearly thought they needed the best gun in the world to assassinate our king—so.”

We were all silent as we gave thanks for the fortune that had protected the Maharajah. Apart from anything else, I would not like to have seen Champlon's skull crushed under an elephant's massive leg.

“Our spies are everywhere,” the Dewan continued. “Little happens in Baroda that we don't know about.
Champlon has given us good information about these villains—we were on the lookout.

“Last night one of our best spies brought us an interesting tale. A party of strangers had rented a bungalow about ten minutes' ride from here. They pretended to be Indians but our spy questioned the cook they had hired. He confirmed they were foreigners. A monkey with a white face went with them. Everywhere. Aha, I said to myself. Immediately I sent a party of soldiers to arrest these strangers. But when my men arrived at the bungalow they had gone. Vanished!”

Aunt Hilda let out a sudden groan.

“The place was cleaned out. Not a thing remained except for this broken thing,” he held out a bulb-shaped piece of blue and white pottery with a spout at the top. It was an ordinary Dr. Nelson's inhaler, which you can buy at any English pharmacist to help with asthma. Both Baker Brothers wheezed, so it could have belonged to either of them.

“We hadn't a moment to lose. I set our guards to close the borders of Baroda.” He paused. “I'm sorry to tell you we were too late.” After another pause he continued, “We have information that this party left Baroda by an outlying hill path late last night. They were traveling in two carriages.”

“This is a disaster!” Aunt Hilda exclaimed.

“Quite so.” The Dewan bowed his head. “There is one small useful fact. I have information from their cook, who overheard their preparation. We believe they are making for the roof of the world, Tibet in the Himalayas.”

I listened to the Dewan's words dully, without any surprise. I already knew the Bakers were going to the Himalayas. Was certain in my bones that the Bakers were seeking Shambala.

“We have to follow them!” Waldo declared.

“Hold on!” My father interjected quietly. “We don't know what route they took, or what part of the Himalayas they are seeking.”

“These are deep waters,” the Dewan murmured. “The plot against our Maharajah is tangled in mysteries. These two foreigners and their monkey have some other goal in mind.”

“I think you're right,” I cut in, addressing the Dewan. “Their plan here has failed. These men are very practical. They've moved on to the next stage of their plot.”

“You're very sure of yourself.” The Dewan's eyes twinkled. “How old are you, young lady?”

“That's hardly relevant.” I shrugged.

“Kit. Apologize at once!” My aunt snapped.

“I'm sorry, sir.”

The Dewan shrugged; he seemed highly amused.

“With all due respect, sir,” I went on. “I think they were really after
the map to Shambala
. The legend of this Himalayan paradise has fascinated travelers for centuries. The Bakers believe this map will lead them there—and to something glorious …

“The scary thing is—they have half of this map now.”

“You are sharp, Miss Salter,” he replied. “Shambala is believed to be in Tibet. You may be right.”

My aunt was watching us with an odd, uneasy expression. “We will never catch them,” she said. “We've no chance.”

She was right. We were foreigners in India. We didn't have the local knowledge to beat them to the mountains, never mind to trace my map's jagged course among the towering peaks of the Himalayas. The strangers were on the quest for Shambala—for some treasure I'm sure my aunt and father were aware of. They had a head start, half the map. They would get there before us. The only hope lay with my half of the map.

I couldn't tell the others. They would call me conceited, deluded and Lord knows what else. But I was the
only
one. The map had chosen me to lead them to Shambala. I just knew it.

My aunt rose, deep in thought.
Click-clack-click
went her shoes as she stomped around the wooden floor. She
turned around and spoke to my father, in what she thought was a whisper. I overheard her hiss: “They must know about it,” before he quelled her. So, I was right. They had
a secret
. There was some treasure in the Himalayas which they were unwilling to tell the rest of us about. I imagined something fabulous, priceless, like the great Koh-i-noor diamond, whose brilliance was said to light up the world. Father was very bad at keeping things from me. I would soon find out what all the mystery was about.