The Murder of Maharajah by H. R. F. Keating

Author:H. R. F. Keating [Keating, H. R. F.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Mystery
Amazon: B001LXWAHG
Publisher: Doubleday
Published: 1980-05-15T07:00:00+00:00

XIII

The Resident looked at D.S.P. Howard.

"Have you time for a game of tennis?" he asked. "Out On the court we can be rather more sure of not being overheard. None of my ball boys has much English."

"Yes, certainly, Sir Arthur."

Down on the Residency's beautifully marked-out No. 1 court, there were two ball boys in Smart uniforms, who even if they were a good deal older than what is generally understood by "boy" were guaranteed to know only English words connected with their duties: "Ball!" and "Good shot, sir," and "Advantage, Resident Sahib." In shorts and white flannel shirts now, D.S.P. Howard and Sir Arthur Pendeverel exchanged a few words over the tightly stretched net.

"Well, Howard, any orange-stained hands?"

"No, sir. Not a sign so far."

"I see. Well, you have only four days until I must cable the Viceroy. It isn't very long, Howard."

"I am well aware of that, sir. But, as I hope you've come to see, the affair is a good deal more difficult than it looked at the outset."

"I suppose it may be. I suppose it may be. But nevertheless it remains simply a matter of finding out which of five people is responsible for murdering the Maharajah. Please remember that. "

D.S.P. Howard made no reply. A short silence ensued over the well-stretched tennis net. It grew longer.

"Shall we play?" the Resident said abruptly.

He lost to the D.S.p., 6—4, 6—4.

It was time for cocktails once again. There were fewer people in the palace drawing room to take them than there had been when the Resident had come to dine. Tonight dinner was to be simply for Porgy's guests and a handful of courtiers. But the service was as assiduous as ever.

White-jacketed Goan bearers went soft-footed through the huge room, skirting the White marble fountain that softly splashed in its centre, moving from one island of back-to-back richly brocaded Empire sofas to the next. On their trays tonight were not only the sugary cream-topped Alexanders that the Old Maharajah had so delighted in, but many another concoction as well: lime-tinted gimlets, faintly rosy pink gins, darker green glasses in which green Chartreuse or creme de menthe predominated, gin and orange as well as whisky awaiting the bubbles of the soda-water bottle beside it.

Under the high arched ceiling of the long room, divided into two by the fountain and the two immense carpets on either side of it, there were not many to make their selection from the bearers' silver trays. There was Porgy, resplendent in a blue brocade sherwani. There was the Dewan, in black silk. There was Captain Ram Singh, tall, impossibly handsome, his moustached face bearing a faint contented smile, as if never in his life had he seen the stinking inside of one of the palace dungeons. There was Mrs. Alcott, in a deep rubyred dress that had been splendid in Wisconsin but somehow here was no longer so splendid. There was Judy, in simple white, simply pretty. And, beside her—where else?—there was James Frere, in dress

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