Goodheart turned to look back. I was in shadow and therefore invisible, but I could only hope that Holmes had continued with his act in their absence. One sharp glance over his shoulder, and then Nesbit was ushering them through a gaily painted doorway, a cloud of lovely warm steamy air billowing into the frigid outside world at their passage.
I went back to Holmes, and was glad to find him still seated and juggling, turned slightly downhill now. I hunkered onto my heels at his side.
“Thomas Goodheart looked back at you before they went into the tea shop,” I told him.
“Did he now?”
“What do you suppose they’re doing up here?”
“They must have diverted on the way to Khanpur. I can’t see them going the land route through Simla, even if the pass is still open.”
“Mrs Goodheart doesn’t seem too pleased to be here.”
“Perhaps Nesbit will find out why they’ve come here rather than visit Jaipur or any of the usual places. Thanks to your quick eyes, I had just enough time to tell him who it was.”
“I do wish there were some way to disguise spectacles,” I grumbled. It was a complaint I had made before.
“We shall have to see about getting you a pair of those on-the-eye lenses the Germans are working on,” he said thoughtfully, and I shuddered; the very thought of wearing paper-thin slivers of curved glass pressed up against my corneas made me queasy.
“Thanks, but I prefer to walk into things,” I said. “How will we get back into touch with Nesbit?”
“Look in the cup.”
Among the small coins in the tin mug Holmes had set out lay a twist of fine paper. I reached for it, then paused. If I tried to pick it up, it might well be lost to my clumsiness.
“Perhaps we might go back to the hotel for a while?” I pleaded. “My fingers are numb to the elbow.”
We were greeted at the hostelry door by young Bindra, who crowed “Look! Look!” and set four balls into the air. Holmes patted his head by way of approval, I told him “Good job” around my chattering teeth, and we requested much hot tea and made for the nearest fireplace.
The note Nesbit had dropped into Holmes’ cup bore the words “Viceregal Lodge, 10:00 P.M.” I hoped the formal venue did not indicate that we were to dress, but decided that the hour was not that of a dinner invitation. It scarcely mattered: I had nothing suitable to wear anyway.
Chapter Thirteen
At nine-thirty of a winter’s evening in the Himalayan foothills, few pedestrians picked their way over the ice-slick roads. Those who did were so thoroughly bundled that only the breathy clouds rising from their swathed heads showed that they were animate. The thin air here smelled of wood smoke instead of dung fires, and the sharp green aroma of deodar was intoxicating.
I had decided, given time to think over the matter, that considering the time of year, the Viceroy himself was not likely to be in residence, and so it proved. The ornate stone fortress two miles from the Mall, which even in the moonless black resembled a Scottish castle, had lights in few of its windows, and those behind drawn curtains. We were not even required to decide which door to approach, since as we drew near, a shadow detached itself from a tree and intercepted us, speaking the single English word “Come.”
We went around the back and entered Viceregal Lodge through a scullery, empty but warm, and followed our guide up a narrow and uncarpeted stairway to an upper room, warm and well lit, with armchairs, sofas, and low tables gathered in front of a great stone fireplace. Our guide closed the door behind us, and we all three peeled, unwrapped, and tugged ourselves free from the multiplicity of coats and shawls we wore.
Once free of his wrappings, our guide proved to be, not the
It was peculiarly exotic, to be seated on a high-backed sofa with the taste of brandy on the tongue, speaking English. There was a sort of echo in the first minutes of speech, almost as if my mind was translating the words into themselves.
“Have you had a successful week?” he asked.
“A valuable one,” Holmes replied.
Nesbit nodded as if he understood the value in a week on the road, but I thought he had not really heard the reply. My suspicion was confirmed when he said abruptly, “I don’t know how much you have heard of the world’s news while you were travelling here.”
“Not a great deal. There was a rumour that Lenin is dead—although it came to us as ‘the king of Russia.’? ”
“No rumour. He died the day you left Delhi, or the day before, it is far from certain. It appears the country will be governed by a triumvirate, never a good omen for stability.”
“But our own Parliament, that transfer of power has gone ahead?”
“The Americans are voluminously unhappy and the Russians grimly inclined to gloat, but yes, Mr Baldwin stepped down in the end, and Ramsay MacDonald has been confirmed. The new Secretary of State for India is Lord Olivier.”
“The governor of Jamaica? But he’s not Labour.”
“A number of the new cabinet aren’t. Critics are saying it’s because there aren’t enough competent Socialists to fill the ranks, although I’d say it’s more an attempt at mollifying the opposition. Still, there might have been considerably less alarm about a minority government had the Socialists not celebrated their victory by publicly singing both ‘The Marseillaise’ and ‘The Red Flag.’ The Bolsheviks will be invited to discuss the treaties and claims they tore up when they came into power. I can only pray Olivier has the sense to hold firm on India.” He put his glass to his mouth, discovered that he’d already drained it, and leant forward to replenish it with brandy and a very small dash of soda. “And Gandhi’s health is deteriorating. The man goes on a hunger-strike, then we get blamed when he becomes ill. Bombay may be forced to suspend his sentence so he doesn’t die in custody—the last thing we need is to create a martyr for the
As if he’d heard my thought, he slapped the glass down on the table and sat back. “Now, you wanted to know about the maharaja of Khanpur. I’m probably not the man to ask for an objective view.”
“You like the man,” Holmes noted.
“I’d even call him a friend, although our paths don’t cross that often, and then usually at events. But I’ve been a guest in his home any number of times over the years, and have found him not only a staunch supporter of Britain, but a fine sportsman as well, which to my mind counts for a lot.”
“Pig sticking,” I said, not intending to say the words aloud. But I did, and Nesbit heard the amusement, even distaste in my voice. Before he could do more than bristle, Holmes drew out his clay pipe, sure indication of a lecture.
“Russell, I don’t know that you are clearly picturing just what this particular sport entails,” he said sternly. I permitted Nesbit to refill my glass, as this was clearly going to take a while—although given the topic, I couldn’t see why. “The British pig is an indolent creature of unsanitary and occasionally comic habits, who most of the time is no more dangerous than a milch cow or draught horse. A wild Asian boar, on the other hand, is as much as three hundred pounds of furious muscle directed by a sly and malevolent brain and armed with four curved razors as much as eight inches long, any of which is capable of slicing through a horse’s leg, or a man’s—few other blood sports give the quarry such an equal opportunity for victory. The whimsical name of the sport aside, pig sticking demands strength, endurance, and a degree of horsemanship far beyond what one sees on, for example, a fox hunt. Pig sticking, or to use the slightly more dignified term employed in Bengal, hog hunting, embodies the warrior virtues of both cultures, East and West. It reduces a soldier’s training to its essence: iron nerves, an acute sensitivity to the enemy, the ability to commit to an instantaneous response, and an overpowering determination to win—precisely those qualities one requires in battle or to quell a riot. Saying that a man is a pig-sticker does not mean merely that he is proficient at relieving the countryside of a pest; it says that the man is possessed of singular ability and self-
