Jani and the Greater Game (The Multiplicity Series Book 1) (14 page)

He hesitated, then to her annoyance pulled out a chair and sat down across from her.

“Your father was a remarkable man, my dear. To hold such an exalted post, and for so long, and to perform the onerous tasks with such finesse and success.” He spread his hands. “Why, your father was little short of a genius.”

“That is so kind of you,” she murmured.

“My business is in arms,” Herr Kaspar rushed on. “My company supplies the Empire, and specifically India, with components of the MacArthur field gun. In my work I have contact with Indian civil servants, and their regard for your late father is of the highest.”

She felt a tightness in her throat as she said, “My father was well loved. He was... he was a good man, Herr Kaspar.”

Oh, please,
please
go away, she thought.

“Unfortunately I never had the good fortune to meet him; a fact that I regret.”

She smiled at her. “Herr Kaspar... I’m sorry, but I really must be going. I am tired, and as I’m sure you can appreciate...” She made to rise to her feet.

Kaspar reached out and laid a meaty paw on the back of her hand. “One moment, please.”

She sat back down, staring at him.

The German glanced over his shoulder, into the tea room, as if checking that they were unobserved. She watched him as he reached into his pocket and withdrew a rubber bulb of the sort used to apply perfume, and she wondered what on earth he might be doing.

Before she could react he smiled across at her and, with one quick movement, raised the spray and squeezed the bulb into her face. She gasped and tried to call out as an astringent, painful mist shot into her face and eyes.

She attempted to climb to her feet, but her vision swam and she felt herself swaying.

“I’m afraid she has taken a bad turn...” she heard Kaspar say in Hindi to a waiter. “I will take her...”

She wanted nothing more than to shout out, to alert someone that all was not well here, but she felt a sudden, sickening wave of nausea and then pitched forward across the table, unconscious.

A
NAND STOOD IN
the doorway and stared into the tiny bedroom.

A narrow charpoy stood in one corner next to a tea chest containing all his worldly possessions: a change of clothing, a wooden car from his childhood, and a pile of books: H. Rider Haggard, R. M. Ballantyne, Robert Louis Stevenson and H. G. Wells.

The bungalow had been his home for twelve years, the only real home he had ever known; but all that was coming to an end. He was sure he’d enjoy his new life living in the eaves of Mr Clockwork’s emporium in Old Delhi, and working with the inventor in his workshop, but he would miss the bungalow, the routine he’d established over the years, and most of all he’d miss Kapil Dev Chatterjee. It was hard to believe that the man he’d come to see as a father was no more. His eyes prickled at the thought and raw emotion scoured his throat.

He would fetch a linen bag from the kitchen, pack his scant belongings, and say goodbye to Mr Rai, Zeena and the rest of the household staff. Then he would wait until Jani returned and make his farewells to her. First, though, there was something he had to do.

He left his room and hurried down the darkened corridor of the quiet house. He came to Mr Chatterjee’s study and slipped through the door. He pulled it shut behind him, then stared into the shadowy room. It looked and felt like a museum to the great man. Sunlight pierced the drawn blinds with golden rapiers, illuminating motes of dust and the minister’s vast desk. How many times had Anand delivered spiced chai to Mr Chatterjee as he sat at his desk, writing or poring over important papers?

Now he crossed to the desk, his heart pounding.

He paused before the solid oak monolith, his eyes skipping over the great man’s fountain pen, his well-thumbed dictionary, and the many framed photographs. Catching his breath, he reached for what he had come here to claim as his own.

He had a choice: there were perhaps half a dozen photographs of Janisha in pride of place beyond the blotter. He selected the most recent, which she had sent to her father earlier this year. It showed Jani outside King’s College, Cambridge, a radiant smile lighting her beautiful features.

Quickly he reversed the frame and prized back the small metal clasps. He withdrew the photograph with trembling fingers and stared into her smiling face.

His heart. He had missed her terribly when her father had sent her to England at the age of eight. Over the years, oddly, it was as if her absence had amplified her presence in his thoughts. Never a day had passed without him thinking of her, wondering what she might be doing in far away England.

Five years ago, when she returned briefly, he had awaited her return with an anticipation that had felt like a sickness; and when they had finally met, and played on the lawns as they had as infants, it was as if no time at all had elapsed: Jani-ji had been the same little girl she had always been, his best friend and confidante...

This time, however, she had changed; no longer was she a little girl: she had become a beautiful woman, and Anand, on first meeting her at the door yesterday, had found himself overawed in her glowing presence. His heart had thumped like one of Mr Clockwork’s mechanisms, and he’d prattled on like a child, nervous but at the same time wanting to impress her.

In days, or at best weeks, she would be gone again. He would write to her, of course; but she would have her own life to lead in England, her studies to occupy her mind, and her young man to dote on. He doubted she would maintain their correspondence, and who would blame her? He felt a terrible emptiness in his heart, and realised that he was crying yet again.

But he would make the most of their time together now. He would suggest they go for coffee, like adult friends, and he would ask if she would like a conducted tour of Mr Clockwork’s Fabulous Emporium. They would talk of her father, and he would tell her what a great man he was, and how much he was respected.

The thought reminded him of something he had overheard earlier this year. Mr Chatterjee had been dictating a memo to his secretary, and Anand had been sweeping ash from the hearth. He had heard the frontier mentioned, and something about the collusion of the local tribespeople with Russian insurgents.

The secretary had asked Mr Chatterjee if he intended to implement the Viceroy’s suggestion, and Mr Chatterjee had replied, “I see no other way. The defence of the country is at stake. In normal circumstances there is no way I would authorise torture, but in this instance...” He had sighed. “Very well, give me the papers.” And he had penned a hurried signature, adding, “Contact Major Bentley and have him round up the suspects.”

Shocked, Anand had finished his sweeping and hurried from the study.

In the months that followed he had tried to forget what he’d overheard and, failing that, convince himself that the torture of the northern tribespeople had been necessary for the defence of the country.

He jumped at a sound from behind him.

A soft hand fell on his shoulder. He turned, blushing, and stared up into the benign, bespectacled face of Mr Rai. Anand could see that he, too, had been crying.

Mr Rai glanced at the photograph in Anand’s hand, and smiled. “I haven’t seen it,” he murmured, “and anyway papa-ji has no need for it now.”

“Thank you, Mr Rai,” Anand said, slipping the picture into the pocket of his shorts. “You see, soon she will go back to England, and...”

“And you would like a memento?”

“She is very fair, no? I...”

Mr Rai smiled. “Tell me.”

“I dream, Mr Rai. I dream one day that she will come back to India and that we will meet and fall in love, and...”

Mr Rai could have laughed at him for his childish fantasy, but he merely smiled and shook his head. “She is Brahmin, Anand, and half-English, and as is the modern way with women, she is educated also. You are a Dalit, boy, and you must know your place.”

He realised that Mr Rai was attempting to be kind by gently stating the facts, but his pride bridled. “But she likes me, Mr Rai, we are friends. Maybe one day...”

Mr Rai smiled and shook his head.

Anand looked at the desk, at the photograph of Mr Chatterjee shaking the hand of the Viceroy. He murmured, “Mr Chatterjee was a good man, wasn’t he?”

“Of course he was. And the gods know this, and will bless him.”

“And...” Anand hesitated. He considered his words, then went on, “But do good men authorise torture, Mr Rai?”

The old man sighed. “Anand, Anand... You have much to learn about the world and the affairs of men. The facts are these: good men can authorise what you might consider to be bad things if the greater circumstances demand such action. Papa-ji was in a position of great authority, with enemies on every side, and he sometimes had terrible decisions to make. Not everyone would relish his position: only great men could fulfil his role, and papa-ji was a great man.”

Anand considered the old man’s words and wondered what other ‘terrible decisions’ papa-ji had had to make.

He was about to ask Mr Rai this when a loud knocking sounded at the front door.

Mr Rai sighed. “Go and see who that is, boy. No doubt the press...”

Anand hurried from the study and along the darkened hallway. When he opened the door, he was dazzled by a burst of blinding sunlight against which the caller showed as a tall, dark figure.

He blinked, and when his eyes adjusted he made out the smart uniform of a British officer – and not just any officer. He shrank back as he recognised Colonel Smethers, with his thin face, piercing blue eyes and sneering lips.

“Who’s in charge here?” Smethers snapped, looking beyond Anand into the shadows.

“In charge?” Anand stammered. “Sahib, but Mr Chatterjee passed away just this morning.”

“I asked who the hell’s in charge, boy. Chalo. Fetch someone, quick smart.”

Anand turned and ran to the study. “Mr Rai! It is Colonel Smethers, sir.”

“And what might
he
want?” Mr Rai muttered as he left the study and shuffled down the hall.

Anand followed the old man and concealed himself behind the hat stand, listening to the exchange that took place.

“I am sorry, sir, but just this morning Mr Chatterjee–”

“I know, I know,” Smethers said impatiently. “My condolences and all that. But it’s the Chatterjee girl I need to see. Quick sharp, there’s a good chap.”

“Janisha?” Mr Rai said, sounding confused.

“Well, she’s old Chatterjee’s only daughter, isn’t she? Of course Janisha.”

“But... might I ask why you would like to see Janisha, sir?”

“Look, just bring her here pronto like a good man, ah-cha?”

“But... but Janisha is not at home, sir. When we left the hospital, she asked to be dropped off at... at Victoria Park. She said she needed to be alone with her thoughts in this time of grief.”

Colonel Smethers grunted something and said, “Very well, then. When do you expect her back?”

“I really cannot tell, sir.”

Smethers swore. “Right, I’ll wait in here until the gel gets back. I’m dashed lathered, so fetch me a cold drink, hm? I’ll be in the old man’s study.”

Anand shrank back into the shadows as Mr Rai stepped aside and the colonel strode down the hall and entered the study.

Mr Rai saw Anand and said, “You heard?”

Anand nodded. “But what does he want with Jani-ji, sir?”

Mr Rai murmured, “I dread to think, Anand. Smethers is a bad lot, according to papa-ji. You’ve heard the stories?”

Anand shook his head. “Yes, sir. Papa-ji hated the colonel.”

“With good reason, Anand. Very well, you must find Jani and warn her. Tell her that for some reason Smethers wishes to question her. This will give her time to compose herself, ah-cha. And Anand, don’t come back before noon. I think the colonel should be made to kick his heels for a while.”

“But, Mr Rai, where will I find Jani-ji?”

The old man smiled. “She will be in one of three places, I think...”

Five minutes later Anand left the bungalow and took a rickshaw north to Old Delhi.

CHAPTER