The Maharani's Pearls (3 page)

“Please, you must,” Miss Stewart begged.

“Where’s my daughter? I want to know where she is—­if she’s safe. I won’t come out
until I know she’s all right.” Her voice was quavering nearly as badly as Miss Stewart’s,
but my mother’s eyes were angry, her face set.

“I—­I don’t know where she is,” Miss Stewart said. “I sent her to her room.”

“She’s not there. Don’t lie to me. I won’t move from here. Her room is empty, I tell
you!”

“Please, don’t worry about her, Mrs. Crawford. Come out, now, or he’ll kill me.”

I crawled away, back to the study. There was still one soldier there, watching events
in the summerhouse. He motioned for me to be careful, and after a moment I joined
him at the window. Looking out, I thought my governess was on the verge of collapse.
Her face was pale, her hands shaking as she held them down against her skirts.

“I can’t trust you, if you won’t tell me where my child is,” Mother was saying.

A hand on my shoulder nearly made me leap out of my skin.

It was Simon, and he was breathing hard, as if he’d been running.

“Tell me what’s happening.”

I gave him a very brief account. He nodded. “Stay here. Count to ten, and then start
crying for your mother.”

I wanted to argue, but he was gone, slipping like a shadow out of the room. But where
was my father? If Simon was here, he wouldn’t be very far away.

I counted to ten, then raised my voice and began to cry. “I’m here, Mother, I’m here,
what’s happened to Miss Stewart? Where’s my father? What’s happening?”

Just then another voice crossed over mine. It came from the far corner of the verandah,
I was sure of it.

“Major Crawford here,” it said, but it wasn’t my father speaking. It was Simon, although
he sounded very much like my father. “I’m unarmed. Let her go and I’ll come out.”

I could see Miss Stewart’s head turn as if she were listening to instructions from
whomever it was holding her hostage.

“You must come out first,” she said then. “He won’t let me go until he sees you’re
unarmed.”

Very clever, I thought. We now knew there was only one man in that summerhouse.

My mother’s voice, seemingly filled with fright, called, “Richard? Please, don’t do
it. Don’t step out. He’ll kill you, and Miss Stewart as well.”

Simon, still speaking as if he were my father, said, “Can’t you see that poor woman
is about to faint? Let her go, and I’ll do anything you ask.”

Almost in that same instant, Miss Stewart went down in what appeared to be a dead
faint, and Simon must have stepped out into the open. Out of the corner of my eye,
I saw him standing there, unarmed just as he’d said. My heart turned over, and I heard
my mother gasp.

I saw the man in the summerhouse rise to his feet, leveling his revolver. But before
he could fire a single shot, another one rang out and the man went down.

Simon went bounding into the summerhouse, bending over, reaching out for something.
Then I saw him pocket a revolver. He turned to Miss Stewart, but she was already sitting
up, a weak smile on her face. My father came sliding down from the banyan tree near
the wall. I saw his boots before the rest of him appeared, and his revolver was still
in his hand. Using Simon as a decoy to give him time to get into position, my father,
had had a clear view of the man holding Miss Stewart at gunpoint. As soon as she had
fallen down in a faint, my father has also had a clean shot. Between them and he and
Simon had come up with a hasty but clever plan.

He quickly joined Simon at the summerhouse, and together they reached in and pulled
out a man in the livery of the Maharani’s grooms. He was shot through the shoulder,
his right arm hanging limp down by his side, but his face was twisted in fury. I saw
him spit in Simon’s direction, but Simon had already leapt back.

My father, quite angry, helped Miss Stewart to her feet.

I went racing to the parlour, where my mother was leaning against the wall, the revolver
still clutched in her hand. Her face was pale.

“I was so afraid he’d hurt her before I could get a clear shot. Thank God your father
came in time,” she said, then smiled at me. “Are you all right, love?” she asked me,
straightening up to put her arm around me.

I could see, through the window, that Miss Stewart was clinging to Simon as if to
a lifeline, and my father was just handing the wounded man over to Sergeant Barton.

As the man turned toward the house, I could see for the first time that he was the
one with the ugly scar across his face. And then Sergeant Barton and a corporal were
leading him away, out of the garden toward the colonel’s office.

My father looked up at the house, and came striding toward the verandah and the parlour
door. He came through it like a whirlwind, scooping my mother into his arms and holding
her close. Over her head, he grimaced at me.

“And just how many more rules have you broken this day?” he said to me. “Bursting
into the barracks without permission, leading a foray into the garden and crawling
through your own window, not to mention invading my study with armed men.”

Ignoring that, I said quickly, “The Maharani—­is she all right? And the rest of these
men who wanted to harm her? What’s become of them?”

“Your father managed to do a bit of the work himself, you know,” he said, the grimace
fading into a grin. “We got there in time, although those men put up quite a fight.
But it was short lived. The one with the scar got away, and we tried to catch him
before he reached the compound. But we were delayed by the mopping up. The Maharani
is well, and she sends her love.”

My mother moved away from his embrace. “I was so worried for you,” she said, touching
his face before adding, “I must see to Miss Stewart. A cup of hot tea, I think, with
a little of your brandy in it, if you don’t mind, my dear.”

She handed him the revolver and strode out of the parlor toward the garden. I watched
her reach out to help Simon with the still-­shaken governess.

My father’s face was stern when he turned to me. “You took too many unnecessary risks,”
he said.

“It was Mother who was at risk. I was on the other side of the garden when it started.”

“It could have been you and not Miss Stewart in his clutches.”

“That’s true,” I admitted, knowing he was right. “What were they going to do? Take
the Maharani as hostage? Or kill her?”

“It appears that they were expecting to force the Maharajah to give up his title in
favor of his cousin, and then leave for exile in England.” My father looked toward
the garden and the summerhouse. “I’d wager he and the Maharani wouldn’t have made
it to Bombay alive, even if he’d agreed to leave.”

“What will happen to the cousin now?”

“I shan’t inquire too closely,” my father said. “I was told once that there was an
old dungeon beneath the palace. It hasn’t been used in two generations. I shouldn’t
be surprised if it’s occupied for a while.”

I could hear Colonel Haldane’s voice on the path leading up to our door. My father
heard it too.

“Least in sight,” he said to me, then put his arms around me for a brief moment before
hurrying to intercept his commanding officer.

I went out into the passage toward my room, as I’d been ordered—­but I went out the
window again to look for Simon. I wanted a full account of everything that had happened.
I knew my father wouldn’t tell me any more than he had, but I could cajole Simon into
describing the action.

I spotted him leaving the garden by a roundabout way so that he wouldn’t encounter
Colonel Haldane, and as I hurried to catch him up, it occurred to me that if I hadn’t
gone to the fortune-­teller, the Maharani might well be in very real difficulty now.
But it was Simon who had remembered that the patrol hadn’t been out today, giving
my father the excuse he needed to act quickly, without consulting the colonel. My
father ought to promote Simon for that, even if it meant losing him as his batman.

Busy with my thoughts, I was halfway across the garden before I realized that I hadn’t
done my duty. I stopped, hesitated, and then turned back to the house. The exciting
details of the skirmish would have to wait. I needed to find my mother and Miss Stewart,
to be sure my governess was all right. She was the one who’d suffered most at the
hands of the man with the scarred face. And she must still be anxious, even though
the worst was over. I didn’t know if she’d actually fainted, or if she’d been clever
enough to pretend to. It didn’t matter. She had been terribly brave at a very bad
time.

As I clambered back through my window again and started toward the passage door and
Miss Stewart’s room, one down from mine, I sighed.

I’d had a far more exciting afternoon than merely going to the village fortune-­teller.
But I’d been my father’s daughter long enough to know I couldn’t possibly write to
my friends in England and tell them all about it. What had happened would be hushed
up, for the Government’s ears only. And to protect the Maharajah.

I tapped on Miss Stewart’s door, then stepped into the room. She was lying on the
bed, a cool cloth on her forehead, and some color had returned to her face. She was
thanking my mother for saving her life. She turned to smile at me.

“It’s a good thing I sent you to your room,” she said. “You might have been in the
summerhouse with me, doing your lessons. I just hope you weren’t too frightened, hearing
what that man made me say to your mother.”

I glanced up at my mother, then smiled in return. “No, Miss Stewart. I knew my father
wouldn’t let anything happen to you or her.”

“There’s my brave girl,” Miss Stewart said approvingly.

Over her head, my mother, quite relieved, nodded to me.

Very likely nothing more would be said about my foray into the bazaar to find the
fortune-­teller. My father, Simon, and Sergeant Barton could be counted on not to
speak about the rest of the afternoon.

But a week later a silk-­wrapped packet addressed to me arrived at our door, brought
by a liveried messenger from the Maharani.

In the packet was a velvet case holding the loveliest rope of pearls, as fine as any
I’d ever seen her wear. There was no message in the case, although I did look.

My mother let me admire them for a time, then closed the case. “When you are older,”
she said. “It would attract too much attention for you to be seen to wear them at
your age.”

It didn’t matter. I understood. And I could guess too why they’d been sent without
a note. My father had told the Maharani, if no one else, what had really transpired
that day. I knew he trusted her not to speak of it. I was glad she knew, because I
cared about her.

Nothing was said about those events when next she came to call on my mother. It was
as if nothing had happened since her last visit. Nor did she ask why I wasn’t wearing
her pearls.

The End

Read on for a sneak peek at the next Bess Crawford Mystery from Charles Todd.

An Unwilling Accomplice

Chapter 1

London, Autumn 1918

I
’
D JUST BROUGHT
a convoy of wounded back to England, and as I walked into Mrs. Hennessey’s house in
the cool of early morning, I thought what a haven of tranquility it was. Here I could
put the war behind me for a few brief hours and perhaps sleep peacefully. We’d been
too close to the heavy guns for weeks, turning even the pleasantest dreams into nightmares.
My ears still ached from the incessant pounding.

I moved quietly toward the stairs so as not to disturb Mrs. Hennessey, but she popped
her head out the door of her downstairs rooms to say, “Bess? My dear, welcome home!
Will you be staying?”

Smiling, I said, “Only for three days. Too brief to think of going to Somerset. But
long enough to catch my breath. It was a rough crossing, and my patients were seasick.
As were three of the orderlies. Are any of my flatmates here?”

“Mary came in last week. I haven’t seen Diana in a bit. She spends as much time as
she can in Dover.”

Her fiancé had been posted to Dover Castle, much to his chagrin, but Diana was very
happy that he was needed there and not in France. I wasn’t quite sure what it was
he was doing, something in Intelligence, although I had a feeling that her amusing,
offhand comments about his standing guard on the castle ramparts were designed to
conceal just how hush-­hush his real duties were.

Several of us had taken the first-­floor flat in Mrs. Hennessey’s house in the autumn
of 1914 when we began our training as Sisters, for it was not thought to be proper
for unattended women to stay in a hotel. It had become a second home for all of us,
and Mrs. Hennessey spoiled us when she could.

“There’s hot water for a bath,” she was saying now, “and I’ll bring up a fresh pot
of tea after you’ve had a rest.”

“That would be lovely,” I said gratefully, and went on up the stairs.

Half an hour later, I’d no more than touched my head to my pillow when Mrs. Hennessey
was at my door. I struggled up and went to help her, wishing she’d waited an hour
or so before bring up my tea.

But it wasn’t a tea tray in her hands. It was a letter.

“This just came by special messenger, Bess, dear. I didn’t like to disturb you, but
it’s appears to be official.”

It was from the War Office. But why would the War Office be writing to me?

I thanked her, and she waited anxiously while I opened the envelope and took out the
single sheet inside.

I scanned the letter and then, dismayed, I read it again.

Looking up, I said, “Good gracious! I’ve been asked to attend a wounded man who is
to receive a medal from the King. Buckingham Palace . . .”

“My dear, what an honor,” she said, pleased for me.

“But there must be some mistake. I don’t believe I’ve nursed this man. The name isn’t
familiar. Sergeant Jason Wilkins.”

“Perhaps the Sister he wanted to ask is presently in France, while you’re available.”

It was possible. “Well, this is a surprise. I expect it means they’ll extend my leave.
The King’s Audience isn’t until early next week. I could have a weekend in Somerset,
with my family.”

“How nice,” she said, but I sensed her disappointment. While she was pleased for me,
it meant I wouldn’t be here for several days after all. And she was lonely, a widow,
with only a handful of old friends. The comings and goings of her young tenants was
something she looked forward to, and she’d grown comfortable with us in the weeks
and months that had become years.

I smiled. “Never mind. We’ll have today and tomorrow. And then I must come back to
London on Monday.”

Her face brightened. “That would be lovely, Bess. I must admit, it’s been dull with
all of you in France.”

The war had kept us busy for four bloody years. And now, when rumors of an end were
spreading both in France and in England, the killing was still going on. Wounded and
dying men were being carried into the forward aid stations without respite. And even
when the fighting was finished, the guns silent, even then there would still be wounded
to care for.

“Do you need to respond?” Mrs. Hennessey asked. “I could post a letter for you.”

“It’s official. They expect me to appear,” I said. I tried to suppress a yawn. “It
means having a fresh uniform,” I added. “Those I brought home are not good enough.”

“I’ll be happy to launder them for you,” she offered. “You must rest, if you’re to
look your best.” Something else occurred to her. “What sort of wound does this young
man have?”

“He’s probably going to be in an invalid chair. I’ll be asked to push it forward when
he’s summoned to the King to have the decoration pinned on his uniform, and then back
to resume our place in the row.”

“I’ve never seen the King,” she said wistfully. “But I did see his late father, King
Edward. And I saw Queen Victoria as well, on her Diamond Jubilee.”

“Did you indeed?”

“Oh, yes, it was the most exciting thing. Mr. Hennessey took me to see the procession,
and I remarked how small she was. Empress of India, and hardly up to my shoulder.
I saw King Edward on his way to his coronation. Such a fine figure of a man for his
age.”

“Well, I shall tell you all about it,” I promised. “Thank you, Mrs. Hennessey.”

Before I could close the door, she added quickly, “Shall I send a telegram to your
parents?”

“Yes, that would be nice.” It wasn’t necessary, but she was so eager to help that
I couldn’t say no.

Pleased, she nodded and then hurried toward the stairs. I shut the door and went back
to bed.

It
was
an honor. The sergeant must have asked for me particularly. Usually an orderly attended
the patient. But what mattered even more were a few days at home. As I sank back against
my pillows, I smiled sleepily. Whatever the reason for my being chosen for this ceremony,
it had extended my leave. And that was an unexpected joy.