The Maharajah's Monkey (7 page)

I closed the window and returning to Miss Minchin took her hand. She clutched mine hard, still babbling. I
made soothing noises and gradually she calmed down.

“Gibbering!” she wailed.

“You're not gibbering,” I murmured. “Just a bad dream.”

“Not me, idiot. It was a
thing
. A creature looking at me,” she said. “Right above me, Kit, I could feel its breath on my face. The most hideous thing I've ever seen.”

“You must have been dreaming. The window flew open and it startled you.”

“It wasn't human! Huge teeth and hideous rubbery lips and hair all over its face. A devil.”

Hair all over its face. Not a devil. Instantly my mind flew to another conclusion. The mysterious Indian's monkey. The barge woman had said it had a most evil face. What was it doing on board the ship? Where was it hiding? And what on earth had it wanted? We had no precious jewels! My eyes darted around the room, checking for missing things, while Aunt Hilda came in harrumphing disgustedly. Then I saw something strange. A large yellow envelope with a dirty smudge on the front lay on my rumpled counterpane. That wasn't there before! I rushed over and tore open the envelope. There was no sheet of paper or message inside. A few fragments of rubbish fell out. Fragrant seeds, a shiny feather, some coarse yellow hair and a withered petal. Nothing at all, just a strange collection of oddments.

Aunt Hilda however appeared to go berserk. She rushed toward me and clasped me so tight to her ample bosom I could hardly breathe.

“No, leave Kit alone,” she yelped to some imaginary enemy.

“Let go of me,” I puffed.

“Danger! The Shadow of Death!”

“Pardon?” I asked bewildered, casting a worried look at the Minchin. She was already scared half out of her wits. She didn't need my aunt to frighten her more.

“Don't you know anything, Kit? This is an Indian Object Letter. These are symbols. Warning you of danger.”

“How do you mean?”

“Object letters are an ancient and secretive language. These letters have passed among Indians for many years, often appearing when there is trouble ahead.” She leaned over and peered at the jumble lying on my bed more closely. “The lion hair stands for Kali, Hindu goddess of death. You must have seen pictures. She wears a necklace of human arms and a belt of skulls.”

A goddess of death festooned with skulls. I was quiet for a moment, for it was a frightening image.

“This is a peacock's feather,” Aunt Hilda continued, picking up the beautiful thing, blue in the center, fanning out in a shimmer of yellow and green. “A symbol of
India, an ancient, beautiful bird but proud and fierce.” She pointed at the withered flower. “This is the flower of the dhak, a plant with blood-red flowers that grows wild all over northern India. It can mean several things but taken together with a symbol of Kali or death it means danger.”

I shushed my aunt hurriedly, for she was practically shouting, and tried to usher her outside. Standing in the doorway, she murmured ominously:

“This letter is a warning, Kit. Something very bad will happen to you if you enter India.”

“Nonsense,” I muttered, though a knot of anxiety was tightening in my throat.

“Your life is in danger.”

“All superstition.”

“It's my fault. I was selfish to bring you with me.”

“I'm not scared,” I lied, as Miss Minchin let out a horrible wail. Judging by her ghostly face, she had overheard the whole conversation. Hurriedly, I slammed the cabin door on my aunt, cutting out her moaning.

It was far too late for second or third thoughts. I was going to India and it would take more than the
threat
of death to stop me.

Back in our cabin, I turned my attention to Miss Minchin. It took all my tact and patience—all right these aren't my strong points—to calm her. Soothing words, camomile compresses, smelling salts … none of these remedies were enough to bring my governess to her senses. She only let me leave on the condition that Rachel would replace me by her bedside. She also consented, feebly, to a cup of beef tea.

Being nice to Miss Minchin was hard work.

It was with great relief that I joined my aunt on the promenade deck, where she was leaning against the rails gazing at our ship's great red and white funnel pumping out steam. I had my work cut out. First I had to calm her down, then fill her in on my suspicions. Most important, I needed her assistance in my plan. This object-letter business had made it urgent. The monkey must have been behind the so called death threat. You see I
knew
all the first-class passengers. There was no one like
Champlon, the Indian Maharajah/trickster or the monkey among them. We needed to get down and search the lower decks thoroughly. Only my aunt possessed that sort of authority with the ship's crew.

At first Aunt Hilda was dubious about my plan. She was still inclined to cling to her notion that Champlon had deserted her. But the object letter and the powerful message of danger it sent was a point in my favor. Finally, Aunt Hilda agreed to let me have my way.

So, ten minutes later, after I had done my duty in ordering the beef tea, I followed my aunt down the entrance from the lower deck to the steerage passengers' accommodation. In front of us walked a bewildered steward. This was probably the only time first-class passengers had demanded to inspect living conditions below deck. Though my aunt had told him we were searching for a missing brooch, the steward was clearly nonplussed.

As we followed him to the single men's quarters, I understood why he was so nervous. The place was fetid, thick with smoke, sweat, the smell of rancid meat and dirty underclothes. Men in vests lounged on the berths that were stacked like bookshelves under the low ceiling. Some were squatting on the floor, gambling, others were smoking pipes or simply lying down, staring at nothing in particular.

Compared with Aunt Hilda's luxurious first-class state room, I had thought my cabin was overcrowded, but this was a new definition of wretchedness. The
Himalaya
could take 1,500 steerage passengers, most of whom were crowded in here. Not that the men seemed glum. In fact, as my aunt and I entered, a great cacophony of hooting began. One hugely muscled fellow, lounging on his berth in underclothes, had the nerve to whistle at my aunt. The steward quieted him. My aunt, of course, can deal with any embarrassment, but I fancy she was a little flushed. Meanwhile, I concentrated on paying attention to every man, squeezed sometimes two or three to a berth. Champlon might be in disguise. There were plenty of Indians and all sorts of folk of every race. But no Gaston Champlon. I had so hoped to find the Frenchman hiding in the men's berths! We moved to the family berths and then on to the single-women quarters. The women were still eating lunch, and I must say their food looked even more unappetising than ours.

Finally, when we had even ransacked the latrines, I was forced to admit defeat. The stench was overpowering. There were too many Indians below deck to find our suspect. It was like looking for an Englishman in London. Sick at heart, we climbed up to the promenade deck.

“Oh my sainted aunt!” Aunt Hilda exclaimed. “What's going on?”

Sailors were running about hollering, ladies were fainting, gentleman were rushing to the sides of the boat. The promenade deck was lurching in the wind and billowing white sails blocked my view. A red and yellow diagonally divided signal flag was fluttering. In the distance a cannon exploded. The steward cursed and broke into a run. Aunt Hilda saw the flag and spat out an oath.

“MAN OVERBOARD!” a sailor shouted.

“It's a lady, you lummox,” another seaman yelled.

I rushed over to the rails but someone elbowed me out of the way. It was a gentleman who had thrown off his jacket. Gripping a rope, tied at one end to a life preserver and at the other to the mast, he jumped overboard. He disappeared into the churning waves, as I realized that it was the Fishing Fleet's favorite, Charlie Prinsep.

That meant the woman must be one of those who gushed around Prinsep in the salon.

Hanging over the rails I watched Mr. Prinsep descend into the waves on the rope. I could see no sign of a body, in the churning of froth and waves. Waldo and Isaac had joined me in the watch.

“He sure is brave,” murmured Waldo, who had appeared.

Mr. Prinsep was thrashing around in the sea, swimming in ever wider circles, while one hand clung to the
life preserver. We spurred him on with our shouts of encouragement, but increasingly I felt that his task was hopeless. All we could see was a group of seagulls skimming the spray, scything in and out of the water. Surely the lady, whoever she was, would have drowned by now.

I felt a hand gripping my arm. It was Rachel, her eyes wide with terror.

“Where's Miss Minchin?” She blurted.

“I don't know.”

“She's not in the cabin. Kit, this isn't right. She hasn't left her bunk for days.”

“Maybe—” I began but Rachel cut me off.

“Oh, Kit, she's been sad ever since—” Rachel stopped dead.

Her words bludgeoned me in the head. For a moment I just gaped at her.

Thing is, I knew Rachel was right. I
knew
Miss Minchin's spirits had never recovered from the forged love note. I shook off my friend's hand. For one lunatic moment, I thought of jumping into the waves. But I was halted by a volley of shouts. Down below Prinsep was signaling for the rope to be hoisted. How could I ever forgive myself? Prinsep was being winched up, dripping sea slime. He had done his best. It just wasn't good enough. Tired and exhausted, he had given up the rescue attempt.

Which meant I might be responsible for something truly awful. It was meant as a joke, I told myself. But I felt so heavy I could scarcely stand up. I watched a soggy Prinsep rise on the rope. Attached to him was a bundle, a shapeless, dripping pile of clothes. My heart jerked suddenly. A skein of hair hung down from the sodden mess, or was it seaweed? Strong hands pulled up the rope and Mr. Prinsep and the bundle were laid on the deck. There was too much of a press in front of me. I caught a glimpse of lavender gown and dripping hair. Then the human throng edged me out. Angrily I pushed my way through, using elbows and fists, anything.

Mr. Prinsep was bending over a lady, whose hair was fanned out on the deck. His mouth covered her lips. He jerked upward and a spray of water spurted from his mouth.

The lady—Miss Minchin—was corpse still. Her features had a bleary look, as if they were covered with gauze.

Mr. Prinsep bent over her again, desperately giving her the kiss of life. But to the circle of onlookers it was quite clear that his attempts were futile. Her skin was waxy, mottled with bluish veins. Like the underbelly of a dead fish. Again the gallant man surfaced, to spit out water, and again bent over her, striving to will her to life. I knelt down at her side, urging her on. My fingers
brushed her hand, which was lying limp on the deck. It was clammy, sea-water cold.

All was lost. The seconds were ticking on and she hadn't stirred, hadn't given any sign of life.

Then, quite miraculously, Celestina Minchin opened her eyes.

“Thank—” I began, then fell silent, for Miss Minchin was not looking at me.

“You saved my life,” she murmured, gazing deep into Mr. Prinsep's eyes.

Mr. Prinsep blushed red as a beetroot. “Always wanted to do it,” he sputtered.

“Do what?” I butted in, interested.

“Rescue a damsel in distress.”

A blond, whom I had seen hanging on Mr. Prinsep's arm at every dance, snorted, her nostrils flaring like a thoroughbred stallion. Then a man with a black bag pushed his way to the front, ordering everyone away. The doctor had finally arrived.

“Clear the decks,” he ordered.

The drama was over. Reluctantly the crowd drifted away, while Miss Minchin was loaded on to a stretcher. Only my aunt, my friends and Mr. Prinsep, were left. Before she was taken away Miss Minchin opened her eyes. This time she
was
looking at me.

“I'm so sorry,” I murmured. “I'm sorry about not
sending Rachel to you, sorry about everything.” I paused a moment, unsure and went on, “You shouldn't have done it.”

“Done what, Kathleen?”

“Er … jump.”

“I didn't
jump
,” she snapped. ‘I was frightened in that cabin. Frightened that evil thing would come back. So I came out to the prom deck. I leaned over the rails for a breath of air, the ship lurched and before I knew my head was under water.

“All I wanted was a breath of fresh air and suddenly I was drowning!”

“We really couldn't accept, Mr. Prinsep,” Miss Minchin twittered. “It's quite impossible.”

The damsel who had lain in a soggy bundle on the deck was gone. She had transformed into this fluttering figure, gazing wide-eyed at Mr. Prinsep, as she organized the removal of our luggage. Though she was refusing something, her eyes signaled she badly wanted to accept.

“We couldn't impose on you, Mr. Prinsep.”

“Oh I say,” protested her savior, “call me Charlie.”

“We just couldn't,” she persisted.

“Least I can do. Hospitality to strangers. All good folk mucking together in the Empire and all that.”

“What's this?” my aunt inquired, bustling up behind us all as we stood on deck, awaiting the coolies who would unload our luggage on to the docks. For you see, we had arrived at Bombay! The gateway to India and a whole new continent of adventure.

“Mr. Prinsep … Charles … is so generous,” Miss Minchin replied. “He has offered to put us up. He is engaged as tutor to the young Maharajah of Baroda and he has a whole lodge in the palace grounds at his disposal.” I hadn't seen so much pretty color in her face for the whole voyage. “Of course I've told him it is quite impossible for us to accept.”