The Perplexing Theft of the Jewel in the Crown (2 page)

If there
is
a hell, he thought, then it cannot be worse than this.

The queue at the ticket window stretched around the stylish new stainless-steel-plated Visitors' Centre. For once the usually riotous mob was being held in check by the presence of the severe-looking Force One commandos patrolling the grounds. A line of them stretched all the way around the museum, adding an air of intrigue to the picturesque formal gardens in which the building sat.

As the queue inched forward, Chopra took the opportunity to once again admire the recently renamed museum. It was now called the Chhatrapati Shivaji Maharaj Vastu Sangrahalaya after the warrior-king Shivaji, founder of the Maratha Empire.

But to Chopra it would always be the Prince of Wales Museum.

As he looked up at its three-storeyed façade clad in kurla stone and topped by a Mughal dome, he felt a gladness knocking on his heart. This feeling overcame him each time he thought of the treasure trove of ancient relics housed inside those walls going back as far as the Indus Valley civilisation, which scholars now claimed might be the oldest of them all.

He had been coming here for nearly three decades, ever since he had first arrived in the megalopolis as a freshly minted constable from his native village in the Maharashtrian interior, a bright-eyed seventeen-year-old with Bombay dreams in his eyes. Since then he had learned a great many lessons, the most painful of which was that all that glittered was not necessarily gold.

The relentless pace of change in the big city often dismayed him. The constant striving for the future, as if the past were a yoke that had to be cast off and trampled into the dust of history. He had found the museum a refuge from this headlong rush into the unknown, a balm for the affliction of nostalgia from which he suffered.

Chopra considered himself a historian, a guardian of the legacy of ancient India, one of a dwindling number. He knew that his country was now intoxicated by progress and the prospect of becoming a superpower. But for Chopra there was still much to be gleaned from the traditions of a culture that had persisted for more than seven thousand years. Modernity was not everything. Technology was not the answer to all problems.

They purchased their tickets and then waited patiently as they were taken inside the Visitors' Centre and thoroughly searched by the Force One guards. Security had been a major concern for the exhibition and Chopra succumbed to the search with due resignation. He had come prepared, without any of the items on the widely advertised prohibited list. Others had not been so sensible.

Chopra watched as the tall, broad-shouldered Sikh man ahead was asked to remove his ceremonial kirpan, the curved dagger that many devout Sikhs carried on their person. The man argued at first but eventually gave up the weapon. Another man insisted on taking in his gutka pouch. He was unceremoniously divested of the offending article.

At least the guards are being thorough, Chopra thought with approval.

All the visitors were asked to deposit their phones and cameras, as these were not permitted inside the exhibition.

Search completed, they were next herded towards the museum's main entrance where they queued up to pass through a metal scanner. Ahead of Chopra a woman refused to give up her gold wedding necklace. The guards inspected it and allowed her to keep it. The big Sikh man set off the scanner with the thick steel bracelet on his wrist, another core article of his faith. This time – when it seemed that he might explode – he was permitted to keep the religious artefact. A portly, aging man argued to be allowed to take in his asthma inhaler. The guards examined the object, turning it this way and that in their calloused hands, then exchanged mystified glances.

Eventually, they shrugged and handed it back.

Finally, they all stepped through the entrance and into the museum's Central Gallery.

Chopra was intrigued to note that the usual exhibits had been replaced by a collection of objects from the days of the Raj. Ordinarily, the Gallery housed pieces from all eras of India's past – a jewelled dagger from the court of Shah Jahan; a terracotta lion from the empire of Asoka the Great; a clay seal from the Harappan civilisation inscribed by that enigmatic and as yet undeciphered Indus Valley script.

Chopra's eyes came to rest on the tacky waxwork models of the British royal family that now took pride of place in the gallery. A plump, middle-aged man with sunglasses parked in his heavily oiled hair had his arm slung cosily around ‘the Queen's' waist whilst his wife beamed at him. Chopra glowered.

He would have liked to linger over the Raj exhibits but Poppy was already urging him onwards and upwards.

They followed the herd as everyone jostled their way up the marble staircase, past Miniature Paintings and Himalayan Arts, to the second floor where the Sir Ratan Tata Gallery had been commandeered for the Crown Jewels exhibit. Four more Force One guards were stationed outside the newly installed reinforced steel doors that now fronted the gallery. The guards straightened to attention as the visitors arrived, their fingers involuntarily flickering to the triggers of their assault rifles.

Chopra knew that the draconian security measures now on display had been inevitable as soon as it was announced that – for the first time in their history – the Crown Jewels would leave their native shores and travel abroad with the Queen. He remembered the fuss in the UK earlier in the year when the press had got wind of the plan. An ancient law had had to be amended just to permit the jewels to be moved.

In truth, very few pieces had been given the all-clear to go abroad. The Indian government had had to give exceptional reassurances, with the Indian Prime Minister himself offering his personal guarantee that no effort would be spared to safeguard the priceless treasures whilst they were on Indian soil.

It was still unclear exactly
why
Her Majesty had agreed to the Indian government's request for the jewels to be exhibited on the subcontinent. The Queen herself had remained tight-lipped on the matter. Chopra, for his part, had always held the monarch in high regard and considered her adherence to traditions emblematic of a bygone age, a time when discretion and good manners were paramount.

Only twenty visitors were permitted inside the Tata Gallery at any one time.

Chopra's group waited impatiently as the previous bunch filed out, buzzing with excitement.

Eventually, they all shuffled into the air-conditioned sanctum of the gallery where they were immediately greeted by two tall, broadly built white gentlemen wielding ceremonial halberds and wearing the ruffed, red and black uniform of the Tower of London guardians. Chopra had read that they were called Beefeaters, a term that had caused some consternation in India, where the bulk of the population considered the cow to be an avatar of God.

The guards stepped aside to reveal a portly Indian in an ill-fitting Nehru jacket, Nehru cap and round-framed spectacles. To Chopra he looked like a plumper version of the freedom fighter Subhash Chandra Bose.

The man welcomed the newcomers with a beaming white smile and spread his arms as if he meant to sweep them all up in an enormous embrace. ‘Welcome to the Crown Jewels exhibition!'

Chopra squinted at the tour guide's nametag: ATUL KOCHAR.

Kochar was an enthusiastic man. He might have been an actor in his spare time, Chopra reflected, such was the animation with which he narrated the tour of the exhibits.

Chopra listened with only half an ear. Like most of the others in the red-carpeted room, his attention was instantly drawn to the Crown Jewels securely ensconced behind various glass display cases stationed around the gallery.

He plucked his reading spectacles from his pocket and pushed them self-consciously onto his nose. From his other pocket he removed his copy of the
Ultimate Guidebook to the Crown Jewels
, which Poppy had insisted they purchase from the Visitors' Centre for an extortionate sum.

As Kochar continued to speak, Chopra peered at the nearest display cases then leafed through the guidebook for the corresponding entries. In spite of the fact that few of the treasures had made it to India, there were, nevertheless, some breathtaking artefacts on display and the guidebook sought to provide the glamorous back story that lay behind each one.

‘But how much is it all worth?'

Chopra looked up to see the plump man who had stuck his arm around the waxwork Queen accosting the tour guide with a belligerent expression.

Kochar gave a somewhat strained smile. ‘No value can be placed on the Crown Jewels, sir. They are the very definition of priceless.'

‘Nonsense,' barked the man bombastically. ‘My family are Marwari. We are in the jewel business. There is always a price. Come now, don't be coy. Let us have it, sir.'

A chorus of agreement washed over Kochar.

As he looked on, Chopra felt a twinge of sadness. Was this all these people saw? A dragon's hoard of treasure to be weighed in dollars and rupees? What about the weight of history that lay behind each of these magnificent creations? Or the skill that had been employed to manufacture them?

‘Stop your yapping, man. Did you come here to appreciate the jewels or buy them?'

Chopra turned to see the tall Sikh man from the queue glaring at the Marwari. The Sikh was a big, muscular gentleman with a fine beard, fierce, bushy eyebrows and a stupendous yellow turban. The retort that had sprung to the Marwari's lips died a quiet death. His face coloured but he said nothing.

The Sikh pointed to an eight-foot-high sandstone carving of the goddess Kali, which had presumably been left inside the gallery due to the fact that its rear was affixed to the wall. ‘You are probably the sort of fool who does not appreciate even our own history.'

Chopra felt an instant affinity with the irate Sikh.

‘Yes,' agreed a pretty young woman in a bright blue sari and red spectacles. ‘We should all learn to appreciate our own heritage. Only then can we truly appreciate someone else's.'

The crowd swiftly saw which way the wind was blowing and galloped towards the moral high ground. There was a sudden chorus of agreement with the big Sikh. ‘Indian culture is the best, no doubt about it!' ‘You can keep your Crown Jewels, sir. The Mughals threw away more magnificent treasures when giving alms to the poor!' A circle widened around the Marwari, who blushed furiously.

Kochar spared the hapless man further embarrassment by smoothly drawing everyone's attention to the centrepiece of the exhibit – the Crown of Queen Elizabeth, the Queen Mother, in which was set the Koh-i-Noor diamond.

The presence of the Koh-i-Noor on Indian soil had caused quite a stir.

Ever since the legendary diamond had been ‘presented' to Queen Victoria more than one hundred and fifty years earlier it had been the subject of controversy. Many in India felt that the Koh-i-Noor had been stolen by the British, and that it was high time those great colonial thieves were forced to rectify the matter. The news channels had been awash with talk of demonstrations and civic protest, particularly from the India First lobby. In an attempt to ward off potential embarrassment for the government, Mumbai's Commissioner of Police had ordered a clampdown on protests during the royal visit, an act which itself had courted controversy as it was deemed inherently unconstitutional.

Kochar gave a brisk rendition of what he called ‘the dark and bloody history of the Koh-i-Noor', beamed at his rapt audience, and then abruptly announced that they had a further fifteen minutes to view the Crown Jewels before they would be requested to make way for the next party.

The crowd dispersed around the room.

Chopra bent down to take a closer look at the diamond.

‘Careful, sir. Don't get too close or the sensors will go off. They are very sensitive.'

He looked up to see Kochar smiling wearily at him. He realised that another man, late-middle-aged, with greying hair and a noticeable paunch, was staring down at the crown from the opposite side of the display case. The man's brow was furrowed in consternation and Chopra could make out that he was sweating heavily even though the room was air-conditioned.