of Anglo-Saxon personal names could reveal.
THE EYE OF SHIVA
The harsh monsoon winds were rattling fiercely at the closed shutters of the British Residency building. The Residency itself stood on an exposed hillock, a little way above the crumbling banks of the now turbulent Viswamitri River as it frothed and plunged its way through the city of Baroda to empty into the broad Gulf of Khambhat. The building had been secured from the moaning wind and rain by the servants; the lamps were lit, and the male guests still lounged in the dining room, unperturbed by the rising noise of the storm outside.
The ladies had withdrawn, shepherded away by Lady Chetwynd Miller, the wife of the Resident, while the decanter of port began to pass sun-wise around the eight remaining men. The pungent odor of cigar smoke began to permeate the room.
“Well,” demanded Royston, a professional big-game hunter who was staying a few days in Baroda before pushing east to the Satpura mountains to hunt the large cats that stalked the ravines and darkened crevices there. “Well,” he repeated, “I think the time has come to stop teasing us, Your Excellency. We all know that you brought us here to see it. So where is it?”
There was a murmur of enthusiastic assent from the others gathered before the remnants of the evening meal.
Lord Chetwynd Miller raised a hand and smiled broadly. He was a sprightly sixty-year-old; a man who had spent his life in the service of the British Government of India and who now occupied the post of Resident in the Gujarat state of Baroda. He had been Resident in Baroda ever since the overthrow of the previous despotic Gaekwar or ruler. Baroda was still ruled by native princes who acknowledged the suzerain authority of the British Government in India but who had independence in all internal matters affecting their principality.
Five years previously a new Gaekwar, Savaji Rao III, had come to power. If the truth were known, he had deposed his predecessor with British advice and aid, for the previous Gaekwar had not been approved of by the civil servants of Delhi. Indeed, he had the temerity to go so far as to murder the former Resident, Colonel Phayre. But the British Raj had not wanted it to appear as though they were interfering directly in the affairs of Baroda. The state was to remain independent of the British Government of India. Indeed, the secret of the success of the British Raj in India was not in its direct rule of that vast subcontinent, with its teeming masses, but in its persuasion of some six hundred ruling princes to accept the British imperial suzerainty. Thus much of the government of India was in the hands of native hereditary princes who ruled half the land mass and one quarter of the population under the “approving” eye of the British Raj.
Baroda, since Savaji Rao III had taken power, was a peaceful city of beautiful buildings, of palaces, ornate gates, parks and avenues, standing as a great administrative center at the edge of cotton-rich plains and a thriving textile-producing industry. A port with access to the major sea lanes and a railway center with its steel railroads connecting it to all parts of the subcontinent.
After the establishment of the new regime in Baroda, the British Raj felt they needed a man who was able to keep firm control on British interests there. Lord Chetwynd Miller was chosen, for he had been many years in service in India. Indeed, it was going to be his last appointment in India. He had already decided that the time had come for retirement. He was preparing for the return to his estates near Shrewsbury close to the Welsh border before the year was out.
“Come on, Chetwynd,” urged Major Bill Foran, of the Eighth Bombay Infantry, whose task it was to protect the interests of the British Residency and the community of British traders who lived in Baroda. He was an old friend of the Resident. “Enough of this game of cat and mouse. You are dying to show it to us just as much as we are dying to see it.”
Lord Chetwynd Miller grinned. It was a boyish grin. He spread his hands in a deprecating gesture. It was true that he had been leading his guests on. He had invited them to see the Eye of Shiva and kept them waiting long enough.
He gazed around at them. Apart from Bill Foran, it could not be said that he really knew the other guests. It was one of those typical Residency dinner parties, whereby it was his duty to dine with any British dignitaries passing through Baroda. Lieutenant Tompkins, his ADC, had compiled this evening’s guest list.
Royston he knew by reputation. There was Father Cassian, a swarthy, secretive-looking Catholic priest who seemed totally unlike a missionary. He had learned that Cassian was a man of many interests-not the least of which was an interest in Hindu religion and mythology. There was Sir Rupert Harvey. A bluff, arrogant man, handsome in a sort of dissolute way. He had just arrived in Baroda and seemed to dabble in various forms of business. Then there was the tall languid Scotsman, James Gregg. Silent, taciturn and a curious way of staring at one as if gazing right through them. He was, according to the list, a mining engineer. For a mere mining engineer, Tompkins had observed earlier, Gregg could afford to stay at the best hotel in Baroda and did not seem to lack money.
The last guest sat at the bottom of the table, slightly apart from the others. It was Lord Chetwynd Millers solitary Indian guest, Inspector Ram Jayram, who, in spite of being a Bengali by birth, was employed by the Government of Baroda as its chief of detectives. Ram Jayram had a dry wit and a fund of fascinating stories, which made him a welcome guest to pass away the tedium of many soirees. That evening, however, he had been invited especially.
Word had come to Jayram’s office that an attempt was going to be made to rob the Residency that night, and Lord Chetwynd Miller had accepted Jayram’s request that he attend as a dinner guest so that he might keep a close eye on events. It was Jayram who suggested to the Resident that the potential thief might be found among the guests themselves. A suggestion that the Resident utterly discounted.
But the news of the Residents possession of the fabulous ruby-the Eye of Shiva-was the cause of much talk and speculation in the city. The Resident was not above such vanity that he did not want to display it to his guests on the one evening in which the ruby was his.
Lord Chetwynd Miller cleared his throat. “Gentlemen…,” he began hesitantly. “Gentlemen, you are right. I have kept you in suspense long enough. I have, indeed, invited you here, not only because I appreciate your company, but I want you to see the fabled Eye of Shiva before it is taken on board the SS
They sat back, expectantly watching their host.
Lord Chetwynd Miller nodded to Tompkins, who clapped his hands as a signal.
The dining room door opened, and Devi Bhadra, Chetwynd Millers majordomo, entered, pausing on the threshold to gaze inquiringly at the lieutenant.
“Bring it in now, Devi Bhadra,” instructed the ADC.
Devi Bhadra bowed slightly, no more than a slight gesture of the head, and withdrew.
A moment later he returned carrying before him an ornate tray on which was a box of red Indian gold with tiny glass panels in it. Through these panels everyone could see clearly a white velvet cushion on which was balanced a large red stone.
There was a silence while Devi Bhadra solemnly placed it on the table in front of the Resident and then withdrew in silence.
As the door shut behind him, almost on a signal, the company leaned toward the ornate box with gasps of surprise and envy at the perfection of the ruby that nestled tantalizingly on its cushion.
Father Cassian, who was nearest, pursed his lips and gave forth an unpriestly-like whistle. “Amazing, my dear sir. Absolutely!”
James Gregg blinked; otherwise, his stoic face showed no expression. “So this is the famous Eye of Shiva, eh? I’ll wager it has a whole history behind it?”
Royston snorted. “Damned right, Gregg. Many a person has died for that little stone there.”
“The stone, so it is said, is cursed.”
They swung round to look at the quiet Bengali. Jayram was smiling slightly. He had approved the Resident’s suggestion that if one of his guests was going to make an attempt on the jewel, it were better that the jewel be placed where everyone could see it so that such theft would be rendered virtually impossible.
