Keeping Bad Company (25 page)

‘The Rani knew that your parliament were discussing things that concerned her. She decided she should be present in London.'

‘Did Mr Griffiths ask you to come here?' Tom spoke direct to the woman – or rather the Rani – but the answer came from Mr Patwardhan.

‘The Rani makes her own decisions.'

With her eyes turned to Tom, mine were free to take in more of the surroundings. A curtain from floor to ceiling divided off another part of the tent. Servants' quarters, presumably. In the shadowed angle between tent wall and curtain, another woman was sitting on a cushion, legs folded, sari over her head, eyes modestly downcast and hands together. The Rani's maid, probably.

‘Is my sister right? You're the Rani Rukhamini Joshi?' Tom said.

Apart from anything else, that would make her heir to quite a large sum of money under Mr Griffiths's will. Or perhaps not so large by her standards.

‘That's so,' Mr Patwardhan's voice confirmed from behind us.

I was growing tired of this game. Perhaps the Rani sensed that, because she glanced at me.

‘Why wouldn't you talk to me when I came out to Richmond?' I said.

‘Because we didn't know who you were.' From Mr Patwardhan again.

I kept my eyes on the Rani.

‘I think you knew very well,' I said to her. ‘You knew a lot of things. You knew Mr Griffiths was dead and you knew about the funeral. I saw you in the coach there. You must have had somebody keeping watch on Tom.'

‘And you on us.' The Rani said it without resentment, as if it were only to be expected. ‘What did you expect to find in my ship?'

‘The body of Mr Griffiths's servant, Anil,' I said.

The tent was quiet, apart from the harness jingle and wheel swish on the carriage drive a few hundred yards away. Goodness knows what people out for a Sunday drive made of the sudden appearance of an eastern pavilion. Some fête, probably. The Rani considered and made her decision.

‘We shall have some tea.'

I'd have expected the maid to get up and attend to it, but it was her prime minister who disappeared behind the curtain. While he was gone she didn't attempt to make conversation and sat looking down at her rings, with no sign of tension or even acknowledgement that Tom and I were still present. Nobody moved until the curtain was drawn aside and Mr Patwardhan came back, followed by a boy carrying a tray. The boy was dressed in trousers, tunic and turban. Carefully, he set out cups and a brass pot on the table. Over his head, the Rani's eyes met mine.

‘I'm glad to see Anil again,' I said.

Tom spoilt the calm effect I was aiming for by giving a gasp of surprise, but then he hadn't been paying much attention to the boy. For some reason, his eyes were on the maid who hadn't moved. Anil served us tea, giving no indication that anything out of the way was happening.

‘I think we should trade,' I said to the Rani. ‘What we know for what you know.'

Vulgar, I knew, but guessed that straight talking was the only hope of getting anything from her. The slightest down and up movement of her chin gave agreement.

‘You first,' she said.

No point in arguing.

‘Mr Griffiths had always felt guilty about what happened to you,' I said. ‘He was angry about opium too. He was making a last attempt at putting things right, as far as he could, by publishing his story. The merchant Alexander McPherson – you knew him – didn't want that. Among other things, Mr Griffiths was as good as accusing him of stealing your jewels.'

In point of fact, her brother's jewels or her state's jewels, but nobody seemed to be worrying about that any more. I waited for some reaction from her, but it didn't come.

‘Somebody killed Mr Griffiths,' I said. ‘Whoever it was made it look as if he'd killed himself. Your prime minister visited him on a Saturday evening. On the Monday morning he was found dead. His servant disappeared then reappeared with you in Richmond. At the very least, you know more about how and why Mr Griffiths died than we do.'

The Rani's eyes closed. The skin of her eyelids was thin and papery. Until then I hadn't even seen her blink and thought it was a first sign of distress, even guilt. But when she spoke, the chuckle was back in her voice.

‘Are you saying I had him killed?'

‘Did you?'

‘Why should I?'

‘If you were planning to smuggle opium and he found out about it, he'd feel angry, betrayed even. He'd try to stop it.'

Another surprised movement from Mr Patwardhan, but the Rani was smiling.

‘And I'm smuggling opium, am I?'

‘We found a chest of it yesterday night, on board the
Calypso
.'

‘Did you take it away?'

That urgently from Mr Patwardhan. Even the Rani seemed anxious for an answer.

‘No.'

‘Or tell some officials?'

Tom cut in before I could answer. ‘We told nobody and left it exactly as it was.'

He might even have gone on to apologize if I hadn't spoken first.

‘We don't want to pry into your affairs except as far as they concern Mr Griffiths's death. That's all we have to trade. Now it's your turn.'

This time she spoke to us directly, not through her prime minister. Her tone was measured and unemotional, as if she'd worked out all she was going to say in advance.

‘Mr Griffiths discovered that I had come to London. He was distressed to hear that we were living in most unsatisfactory accommodation and offered us the use of his small serai.'

So that was why Mr Griffiths had moved out of his comfortable cottage. It might also explain the money order waiting to be sent on his desk, if the Rani had been temporarily or permanently embarrassed for money.

‘When we met, Mr Griffiths told me of his determination to see that I was compensated for my loss and the pamphlet he intended to publish. I approved it, but there were some points that were not altogether as things happened. I considered this for some time, then sent Mr Patwardhan to tell him. It was too late. The pamphlet had gone to the printer. But Mr Griffiths was interested in what I had to say. He said he would think about it and asked Mr Patwardhan to return in two days.'

I'd have liked to ask what was the new information she'd sent to Mr Griffiths, but she wasn't the kind of person you interrupted.

‘Mr Patwardhan went to his lodgings the following evening. He found another person present. The man was Alexander McPherson.'

This time I couldn't help interrupting.

‘In Mr Griffiths's lodgings? When was this?'

‘As you said, the Saturday.'

‘And McPherson was actually there with Mr Griffiths? What was he doing?'

While she was speaking, Mr Patwardhan had come to stand beside her. Now she nodded to him to take up the story.

‘Drinking sherry,' Mr Patwardhan said.

‘Just standing there, drinking his sherry?'

‘Not standing. Sitting opposite Mr Griffiths. They were both drinking sherry.'

I was imagining confrontation, even violence. The picture faded, leaving total puzzlement.

‘As if they were friends?'

Mr Patwardhan considered. ‘I shouldn't say friends. Rather two opponents who had agreed a necessary truce. Which indeed was the case. Mr Griffiths introduced us, then he said something that I remember word for word. “I still abhor what this man is doing in the way of trade, but I think he will keep his word, particularly since he has very little choice.” Mr McPherson was not pleased, not pleased at all. He said choice or not, he was a gentleman and always kept his word. I drank a cup of tea, then Mr Griffiths said I should please go away and come back the following day, the Sunday. He said they – meaning himself and Mr McPherson – were going to do something which the Rani should not know about until it had taken place. He asked me to come in the evening after dark, on foot, so as not to be noticed.'

A silence. I was trying to adjust to this picture of Mr Griffiths as a plotter. I think Tom was too, because when he spoke his voice was like somebody coming back from a long way away.

‘And you went back the following evening and found Mr Griffiths dead?'

‘No. I went back and found Mr Griffiths very much alive and pleased with himself. His last words as he saw us off in the carriage were to tell the Rani that he'd do himself the honour to call on her in the next day or two.'

‘Who's “us”?' I said. ‘And what carriage? He'd told you to send your carriage away.'

‘There's an alleyway beside his lodgings, and a back gate. He had another carriage waiting there. The boy Anil came with us. The Rani found it impossible to get proper servants here, so Mr Griffiths said he would lend Anil.'

‘“Us”?'

‘Myself and Mr McPherson.'

I almost howled with confusion.

‘You mean you and Mr McPherson drove off together? Where to?'

It was the Rani who answered. She seemed amused.

‘To Richmond, of course. Mr McPherson spent the night with us.'

She'd skittled us, and she was enjoying it. There were a dozen questions I wanted to ask, but few of them made sense in the light of what she'd just said. I asked her to repeat it, to make sure I'd heard aright, and she did, with a look on her face that wasn't quite a smile but showed that if she were a cat, she'd be purring. Or in her case, a tiger more like.

‘But why?' I said.

‘Because it was far too late for him to go back to town.'

Which was a fair enough answer, but not how I'd meant the question, and she knew it.

‘So is Alexander McPherson a friend of yours?'

‘I had not seen him for twenty years. I doubt if I shall see him again.'

‘Did he kill Mr Griffiths?'

‘No. There was no need. As Mr Patwardhan told you, they'd agreed a truce.'

‘Do you know who did kill Mr Griffiths?'

‘No.'

‘You said there were some points in Mr Griffiths's account that were not how things happened. Did they concern Alexander McPherson?'

‘One of them, yes.'

The glint in her eye showed that somehow I'd hit a question that mattered and she was deciding whether to say more.

‘So where was he wrong about McPherson?'

‘Mr McPherson hadn't taken my jewels. He never had the jewels apart from that one hawk I gave him. When I heard that Mr Griffiths was accusing him, I told him he was wrong.'

‘What did he say to that?'

‘That he would apologize to Mr McPherson, in public if necessary. That's why they made their truce. Now, I hope you will both kindly excuse me. I am an old woman, and all this is very tiring.'

She took no trouble to sound convincing. Tom was bending to pick up his hat from the carpet when I tried a last question, more or less at random.

‘Did you really come all the way to London because of this committee?'

If that were the case, she'd surely overestimated the importance of any parliamentary committee.

She nodded. ‘That. Also to show my only daughter the country her father came from.'

As if that were an agreed signal between them, the girl I'd taken for a maid lifted her head and let the fold of her sari fall back from her face. I couldn't help gasping. It wasn't just her beauty – though she was one of the most beautiful girls I'd ever seen, with skin the colour of creamy coffee and eyes like the sky on the kind of summer night you want to last forever. The real shock was the way that her beauty completed the picture of Mr Griffiths's princess. Some of it had been there in the Rani's pride and force of character. The daughter's face showed what an irresistible force the mother must have been when younger. Poor Griff. Something was happening to my brother. Tom had grasped his hat and been on the point of standing up when the girl's eyes met his. He dropped his hat, sat back down on the stool then jumped up again as if it were suddenly red hot, all without taking his eyes off her.

‘I'm honoured . . . delighted to meet . . . Miss, or I should say, Kumari . . .'

‘My daughter's name is Chandrika,' the Rani said.

Chandrika smiled. Tom bowed. Mr Patwardhan had recovered Tom's hat and was trying to hand it to him. The boy Anil was holding back the tent flap. Somehow we said our goodbyes and walked with Mr Patwardhan to where his carriage was waiting. Anil walked behind us. On the way, I hung back and imitated Tom's clumsiness by dropping my reticule. Anil was there at once to pick it up. As he handed it back, I whispered to him.

‘If you're in fear or danger, say so now and we'll get you away.'

It wasn't an empty promise. Amos, with the boy on the leading rein, was practising circles within calling distance.

‘I'm in no danger, memsahib. The Rani says I can stay with her and go back to India with her.'

No fear or guile in his voice. I waved to Amos as a sign that no help was needed. Mr Patwardhan was willing to drive us anywhere we wanted, but I asked him to set us down by the reservoir where we'd met.

‘It makes no sense,' I said to Tom. ‘Why should she be in league with Alexander McPherson?'

Tom didn't answer. He was watching as the carriage drove away, towards the tent in the grove of trees, now out of sight. At last he gave a long sigh and said something, though nothing to the purpose.

‘That poor girl. Did you understand, Libby? She must be Griffiths's daughter.'

‘L
ibby, just try and entertain the idea that they might be telling the truth.'

The middle of Sunday afternoon, with Mrs Martley out visiting, so Tom, the cat and I had the parlour to ourselves. We were well into our second pot of tea and a discussion that couldn't, so far, be called an argument because we were both too confused to take sides. Tom's plea followed a theory, proposed by me, that the Rani and McPherson were involved together in a plan to smuggle quantities of opium into Britain.