The Notorious Nabob, page 20
‘Kassim did not entirely trust you, Major Sahib ‒ and with reason, perhaps, for it seems you have been in no hurry to carry out your instructions. However, we cannot wait for ever to see if St Clair Sahib lives or dies. He must be searched.’
The intensity of Olivia’s relief betrayed her. The movement was only a tiny one, but it was enough to catch Major Kendall’s sharp eye.
‘So, you are awake, Lady Olivia. Good.’ His voice was brisk, cold, utterly unfeeling. ‘You can answer some questions.’
She cleared her throat which felt parched. ‘A drink,’ she gasped, to gain time.
Impatiently he summoned one of his men to fetch a glass of wine, and while she waited Olivia sat up a little and glanced around, fighting a lingering queasiness. She was in a small saloon ‒ lying on a sofa. On the floor nearby Damian lay stretched out, very still. His beautiful turban had gone, and his hair was very dishevelled, but otherwise he looked unharmed and she thought he still breathed. With them in the room, there were two Indian men, also Major Kendall and two others. It would not be easy to outwit so many, though she had heard them say that Hassan was free and he must even now be planning to help his master. She had to believe that. Time therefore was all-important.
The wine was brought, and while she sipped it, one of the Indians began to go through Damian’s pockets. Kendall watched him with an air of complacence which she found vaguely puzzling, before turning his attention to her.
‘Lady Olivia, before we begin, perhaps I should tell you that this house belongs to Sir Greville Barton ‒’
Her glance flew to his face, and she saw him smile as her hand trembled, spilling the wine on to her beautiful sari. ‘He uses it, I believe, as a “love nest”,’ his lips twisted disparagingly. ‘Sir Greville is not very pleased with you at present, but I am sure he will be only too happy to take his revenge, should you prove unhelpful to me.’
His voice was cold and the threat very real, so that it took every ounce of Olivia’s courage to appear unmoved. ‘I cannot imagine in what way you expect me to help you. If you have some idea of holding me for ransom, it will be a fruitless exercise ‒’
He laughed shortly. ‘Enough, ma’am. We both know why you are here. I assume you attended that ball hoping to pass yourself off as Aysha. So,’ he barked the question at her. ‘Where is Aysha?’
‘Where else but at home in her bed?’ she answered, hoping that she sounded more confident than she felt. ‘It is no secret that she has been unwell.’
‘I know what is being said, ma’am, but to be frank, I don’t believe a word of it.’
Olivia set her wine-glass down on the small elbow table beside her and gave him the full benefit of the Egan look, eyeing him from head to toe, taking her time. ‘I do not have the slightest interest in what you believe, Major Kendall.’
He took a step forward, his face red with fury. But at the same moment, the man who had been searching Damian stood up. ‘The Golden Eye is not on his person.’ Kendall sneered. ‘Did you expect it to be? Only a fool would carry such a valuable object around with him.’
Mahomet and the major glared at one another, but before the Indian could carry the argument forward, Damian stirred and opened his eyes. Olivia sprang to her feet with a cry, and would have gone to him, but was held back. He raised himself on one elbow, his eyes turning swiftly to where she stood, her face pale, but now flooding with love and thankfulness.
‘Are you all right?’
Olivia nodded, unable to speak. He let go a deep breath, his own relief almost unbearable. Then he turned his mind to what he must do.
‘When I set out this evening,’ he said, his voice sounding remarkably strong for a man who had so recently been poisoned, so that Olivia wondered if he too had been feigning unconsciousness, ‘the jewel was safe on a chain around my neck. If it is not there now, someone has removed it.’ He looked enquiringly at each of their captors in turn, his glance coming to rest at last on Major Kendall. ‘Now who, I wonder, would be enterprising enough to take such a risk?’
Alarm, swiftly masked, flickered in the Major’s eyes. ‘Don’t listen to him. Can’t you see what he is trying to do?’
‘But I find what St Clair Sahib suggests most interesting,’ said Mahomet in his precise unhurried English. ‘Prince Kassim himself was troubled, you see, that greed might overcome you, which is why he decided to send me to England. And what do I find? Firstly that Raschid is dead ‒’
‘That was Hassan’s doing, not mine!’
‘Perhaps, but with Raschid so conveniently out of the way, what was there to prevent you from killing the St Clair Sahib and taking the Eye for yourself?’
‘Precisely,’ murmured Damian, sitting up and resting his arms on his knees. ‘Why don’t you search the good Major? The outcome could be most revealing.’
‘I don’t advise it.’ Major Kendall had drawn a pistol and cocked it. ‘We are three against two and I shoot the first man who moves.’
The Indians stood, irresolute ‒ and for a moment all was still and silent. Then Damian spoke again. ‘Highly dramatic, but your count is inaccurate, I fear. Grant, my good fellow, do relieve the Major of his gun before someone gets hurt.’
Major Kendall, hearing one of his own men so addressed, half swung round, discharging the pistol harmlessly into the air just as Damian hurled himself at his legs and brought him crashing to the ground. The next few moments were pandemonium, as the fair young man called Grant disabled the third man, and tied him up with cord from the curtains, while the Indians fell on Kendall, pulling his clothing apart in a feverish desire to find what they sought.
Mahomet knelt up at last, triumphant, brandishing the small leather pouch. ‘I have it!’ he cried, tipping the diamond on to his hand. Then he secured it, and placed it with infinite care inside his coat. ‘Dog!’ he snarled at the cowering Major. ‘Defiler of honour!’ And before anyone could move, a wickedly curved knife appeared in his hand and he had plunged it into the prone body.
A scream died in Olivia’s throat as his companion turned to kill the others. But Damian’s voice, whiplash hard, stopped him in mid-flight. He had Kendall’s gun levelled at Mahomet. ‘This has two barrels, and only one has been fired. I would prefer not to use it, but if I have to, I will.’
Uncertain what to do, the other Indian looked to Mahomet, who in turn eyed Damian warily.
‘You have the Golden Eye of Adjamir,’ Damian said harshly. ‘Go, and let that be the end of it.’
‘But it is not the end, St Clair Sahib. Prince Kassim demands also that you and your daughter should die.’
‘God, but you people are stubborn! Can’t you see? We are no threat to Kassim, and I have no particular desire to shed any more blood, so go while you still can.’
For a moment it seemed that Mahomet would listen to reason. All attention was focused on him, and in that instant his accomplice, a fanatical light in his eyes, reached across and seized Olivia, pressing the point of his knife against the delicate skin beneath her chin. She froze, terrified that the slightest movement would release the frenzy that even now exhibited itself in a nervous panting, his fetid breath reeking in her nostrils. Her wide unblinking gaze was fixed on Damian, waiting to see what he would do.
Mahomet and his excitable companion exchanged a flurry of words. Then Mahomet said, ‘Put down the gun, St Clair Sahib, or Achmid will drive his knife into the lady’s beautiful white throat. As you can see, he is in a most unstable state at present and I would not want anything to distress him.’
Damian dragged his glance away from the tiny spot of blood which had already appeared on Olivia’s neck. Tight-lipped, he laid the gun on the table. ‘Right. Now tell that madman to let her go, damn you!’
‘Presently. Move away from the table, if you please. Good. That is much better. Also, you will tie up the man Grant.’ When all was done to his satisfaction, Mahomet spoke again to his accomplice, who lowered the knife, but reluctantly, and only by a few inches.
Olivia realised she had been holding her breath. She let it go in a great sigh. Her case was little improved, but she was still alive, and so was Damian. It was at this moment that she became aware of a faint movement outside the window ‒ something pale against the darkness, moving stealthily. Hassan! In all the furore, she had forgotten Hassan. She dared not move, let alone attempt to indicate to Damian what was happening for fear of upsetting the very delicate balance between life and death. She could only hope that Hassan would have been able to see for himself how matters stood.
Mahomet, meanwhile, was feeling pleased with himself. He was telling Damian exactly what they were about to do. ‘You will take me to Aysha ‒ and Achmid will remain here. If all goes as I wish it, the lady may live. She is not a part of what is between us.’
‘Oh, but I am!’ Olivia exclaimed, forgetting all else for the moment. A quick prick of the knife reminded her.
Damian’s mind meanwhile was working furiously. Where the hell was Hassan? This wasn’t at all how he had planned for things to go. There was no way that he was going to leave Olivia with that madman, Achmid! But what alternative did he have? Grant managed to indicate that he had almost freed his hands, but unless they could get Achmid away from Olivia, his freedom would avail them little.
And then, out in the hall a floorboard creaked. They all heard it ‒ and waited. Nothing happened.
‘Kendall had several men outside,’ Mahomet said, sounding confident, but with apprehension in his eyes as he watched the door. ‘It must be one of them.’ He jerked his head towards the door. ‘Achmid, you will see.’ Achmid hesitated, and received a stream of abuse. Mahomet snatched up the gun and, trembling, pointed it at Olivia. ‘I will make very sure that everyone here behaves most sensibly while you do so.’ He stood out of sight behind the door and urged Achmid forward.
But even as Achmid approached it, the door burst open. Hassan stood there, massive and invincible; before Achmid could use his own knife, Hassan’s was whistling through the air to bury itself in the crumbling body.
Mahomet was ineptly struggling to fire the gun and uttering wild curses, when Hassan landed on top of him, and had half strangled the life out of him by the time St Clair’s curt voice penetrated his concentration. ‘Enough, Hassan, I want him alive.’
The massive figure shuddered. He threw the Indian from him like a spent rag before climbing to his feet, silent, shoulders drooping.
St Clair, still haunted by that vivid image of Olivia’s neck flecked with blood, was pitiless in his wrath. ‘You cut that damnably fine, I must say. What in the name of Allah took you so long, man?’
The huge shoulders sank lower still. ‘Lord, I have failed you. My shame hangs about my neck as a great boulder.’ He bent with agonising slowness to wrench the wickedly curving, blade from Achmid’s body, wiped it superficially on the crumpled body and held it out to his master. ‘My life is yours, lord. Take it, or give me leave to go. I am no longer worthy to remain in your service.’
‘I’m inclined to agree,’ retorted St Clair, in no mood for histrionics, ‘if you mean to maunder on like some whey-face whelp.’ And then, angry with himself, ‘Oh, for God’s sake put that evil-looking weapon away!’
‘Damian, how could you be so ungrateful?’ Olivia ran across the room to the servant’s side. ‘Hassan, you mustn’t blame yourself! In fact, you came just when we most needed you! Oh, my love, tell him!’ she cried, seeing the servant turn away, his figure sagging, as though he hadn’t heard. It was as he put out a hand to grasp at a chair that she saw the blood beneath his arm, and spreading down his tunic. ‘You are hurt. Damian, come quickly ‒ Hassan is hurt!’
St Clair was across the room on the instant, calling Grant to come and help. Together they eased him into the chair and St Clair tore open the tunic to expose a long jagged wound running along Hassan’s ribs, exposing the bone in places.
‘Good God, man! However did you come by this? Grant, take a lamp and see if you can find some water and something to stanch the blood.’
While Grant was away, Olivia did what she could with part of Hassan’s torn tunic, dabbing as gently as she could, distressed by the obvious pain it gave him to breathe. Now and again she was obliged to swallow down the nausea that still lingered from the drugged wine.
‘Many men, lord. More than we expected. Most are now dead … some of our own men, also. And the fault must be mine, for they were upon us before I saw them.’
St Clair guessed that his servants had probably been over-eager, and had precipitated the confrontation. But Hassan could never be brought to see it that way. ‘If you mean to continue in this martyred fashion, I shall assume that you are suffering from delirium and treat you accordingly,’ he said roughly. ‘Good God, man! You’re not totally invincible! Listen, if your accursed pride must be salved, believe that Lady Olivia spoke no less than the truth when she said that your arrival saved us from almost certain death.’
‘Indeed it did,’ Olivia assured him. ‘But I was not worried, for I always knew that you would come.’
Hassan gave her a long, hard look, and some of the dull torment left his eyes. ‘The lady is generous,’ he said. The weakness of his voice told more clearly than words that the loss of blood was sapping his strength.
‘Grant,’ St Clair said without looking up from what he was doing, ‘be a good fellow and see if you can find our carriage. It should be waiting as we arranged.’
‘Right.’ Grant glanced at Hassan and hurried out. From the corner of his eye St Clair saw Mahomet picking himself up, furtively taking possession of the discarded pistol, and hiding it in the folds of his clothes as he looked from the group around Hassan to the door, assessing his chances.
‘Don’t be in such a hurry, Mahomet,’ he said calmly. He explained to Olivia how to keep the pressure on the wound, and stood up, dishevelled, but still imposing in his regal robes. The two men faced each other, and a casual observer in that instant might well have thought they were of the same race.
St Clair saw the gun arm stir, and smiled thinly. ‘I don’t advise it. I was wrong about that pistol ‒ it isn’t really primed. So, you see, I could kill you, here and now, and reclaim the Golden Eye, but that would solve nothing. Prince Kassim would simply send more men and the whole wearisome business would be repeated.’ He eyed Mahomet thoughtfully. ‘However, I take you to be a man of sense ‒ and honour, according to your own lights. So I intend to let you go.’ He heard Olivia’s little skirl of protest, and made that curiously personal silencing gesture. ‘Take the Golden Eye of Adjamir to Prince Kassim and tell him that if he will leave us in peace, he need fear nothing from me or my daughter in the future. I must, of necessity, return to India from time to time. But I will engage never to visit Adjamir as long as he lives.’
Mahomet weighed the words in silence, and then bowed. ‘You also are a fair and honourable man, St Clair Sahib. I will do as you say, and may Allah grant Prince Kassim the wisdom to accept your words.’
As he reached the door, Damian asked abruptly, ‘The old Ruler is dead, of course?’
The Indian bowed his head. ‘It was very quick, thanks be to Allah.’
It was very quiet when he had gone; only the rasp of Hassan’s breathing disturbed the silence. His eyes were closed, his face very still.
‘Will he be all right?’ Olivia murmured anxiously.
‘Hassan is as strong as a bull,’ he said, with more confidence than he felt. ‘Once we get him home and comfortable …’
She heard his uncertainty and went to put her arms around him. ‘Oh, my love! He will live, I am sure.’ She laid her head against his shoulder. ‘It has been quite a night! Do you suppose we will have been missed? Poor Aunt Constance … I hope she won’t be worried out of her mind!’
‘By now, the rumour will doubtless be abroad that we have eloped,’ he suggested with a quiet weary chuckle.
‘Heavens! I didn’t think of that!’ She yawned and settled closer. ‘Oh, well, now you’ll simply have to marry me.’
His arms tightened around her. ‘I know.’ His voice was suddenly harsh. ‘Though I’d as lief have found a pleasanter way of compromising you.’
Olivia lifted her head, voicing at last something which had been bothering her for some little while. ‘You knew all this was going to happen, didn’t you?’
He put her away from him, looking down at her with a faint ironic gleam. ‘I can see there’s no fooling you, darling girl! God help me, yes it was planned, but not like this.’ They heard Grant’s quick footsteps in the hall. ‘Later,’ he said. ‘I will tell you all, later.’
It was in fact to be much later, for there were a great many more important issues to resolve ‒ Hassan to be got to his bed, her aunt and uncle to be found, and pacified with as much of the truth as could be told without exacerbating Mrs Gilbey’s nerves beyond their already tender state.
And after all that ‒ there was sleep. The long, long sleep of total exhaustion.
Chapter Eighteen
The night of Lady Bryony’s masquerade ball remained the main topic of conversation for many a day after the event. Nobody would ever know the whole truth of it, but the disappearance of Lady Olivia and Mr St Clair at approximately the same time instigated a great deal of delightful speculation, the more so in the light of the announcement of their engagement which appeared in the Gazette two days later.
There was also considerable mystery surrounding Sir Greville Barton, at whose small ‘out of town retreat’ the constabulary had discovered a number of dead bodies, of varying nationalities, including an acquaintance of Sir Greville’s. He was unable to vouchsafe any convincing explanation for the findings, though for want of evidence no action was taken. Nevertheless, Sir Greville deemed it prudent to remove rather hurriedly to his Somerset acres.
‘Such an odd, unpleasant occurrence,’ Mrs Gilbey vouchsafed to Lady Crockforth when she came to enquire after Olivia’s health. ‘I cannot help but reflect how fortunate it was that Olivia had the sense to refuse him. Only consider the scandal which must have engulfed her, had matters been otherwise?’
