The Maharani's Pearls
Author: Charles Todd
Date: 2014-07-01T05:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Mystery
Description: Living with her family in India, young Bess Crawford's curiosity about this exotic country sometimes leads her into trouble. One day she slips away from the cantonment to visit the famous seer in a nearby village. Before this woman can finish telling her fortune, Bess is summoned back for an afternoon tea with the Maharani, a close friend of her parents'. The seer's last words are a warning about forthcoming danger that Bess takes as the usual patter. But this visit by the Maharani has ominous overtones that mark it as more than a social call. Her husband has political enemies, and she has com
Publisher: Witness Impulse

Contents

The Maharani’s Pearls

An Excerpt from An Unwilling Accomplice

About the Author

Also by Charles Todd

Copyright

About the Publisher

The Maharani’s Pearls

British Army Garrison, Northern India, when Bess Crawford was ten

“BESS, FOR GOD’S sake, what are you doing?”

It was my father’s batman—his Army servant—standing in the tent opening. I was sitting cross-legged on the dusty carpet, and the fortune-teller had just finished spreading out her cards.

“Simon, please! I want to hear what she has to say.”

“And your mother will have my head if I don’t bring you back to tea now.”

“Pretend you haven’t found me—keep looking for another few minutes. Please?” I begged. “I know I must change before the Maharani arrives. It would never do to appear for tea looking as if I’d just come from the bazaar. But there’s still plenty of time.”

“You will have just come from the bazaar. She arrived early. And you’ll have fleas before you leave, if not worse.” He pointed to the dog lying behind the fortune-teller, busy scratching its shoulder.

If the Maharani had just arrived, it would be at least another half hour before tea was brought in.

“Simon—”

“I’ll be cashiered, Bess.”

“Shhhh. It will only take another moment or two,” I begged, then I turned back to the fortune-teller and said in Hindi, “Continue. But hurry, please.”

She bent over the cards, frowning. “You will be in danger on the water,” she said in that singsong voice that gave the impression she was in a trance. But she wasn’t. It was part of the show one pays for when one has one’s fortune told. “And I see a great conflict, not now, but to come.”

So far her guesses were on the mark. I was English, and there was always danger on the water as we took ship to and from home. As for a great conflict, my father was a British Army officer. War was his business, great or small.

Simon, still in the doorway, said again, in a voice that brooked no argument. “Elizabeth.”

I said to the fortune-teller, “Quickly! Who will I marry? And will I be happy?”

But her face had changed as she studied the tattered cards spread across the space between us.

“The life of someone you care for is in grave danger. My child, you must go now. Before it is too late.”

Simon’s life, for not bringing me posthaste to tea? She must have understood what he’d been saying to me. It wasn’t among his duties to play nanny to my father’s daughter, but occasionally it was necessary for someone to look for me when I strayed to the horse lines, the bazaar, the temples, and all the other far more exciting places than our quiet garden, and lost track of the time. It certainly wasn’t going to be my governess. Miss Stewart would have the vapors if she saw me now.

She didn’t care for India very much. I suspected she’d come out to find a husband, and had taken a position as governess when she failed to meet a young man to her liking. She wouldn’t be the first young Englishwoman to do so. When we left for England on my father’s next leave, she would very likely go with us, and remain in London rather than travel back with us.

I thanked the fortune-teller, disappointed. I hadn’t expected truth and wisdom, but I’d hoped for something I could write about to friends who had been sent back to school in England. Half our native staff went to fortune-tellers and believed in them. I had it on the authority of my ayah, the nursery-room maid, that this woman was the best.

I got up and walked to the tent opening, put out with Simon for spoiling my adventure. I said crossly, “I thought you and I were friends.”

“So we are,” he said, clearing a path for me past the snake charmer and the man eating fire. “But I have a duty to your father, and by extension, to your mother. You should have guessed the Maharani would arrive early. She often does. You could have asked me to take you to a fortune-teller tomorrow.” He pushed aside a sacred cow meandering through the crowded marketplace, and caught my arm before I could pause to watch the man climbing a rope to nowhere.

“I could have asked,” I said, “but I knew very well you’d have said no. So I came on my own.”

Exasperated, he said, “Bess, you aren’t safe wandering about a village by yourself. You’re an English girl, your father is an officer. You could be abducted, held for ransom. Worse.”

“In the last village where we lived, yes, I know. But here everyone is friendly. I’m not in any danger. Someone would come to my rescue. Besides, I brought my syce.” My native groom was holding our horses on the outskirts of the village.

Simon shook his head in disgust. “Much good he would be.”

I looked up at my companion. He was tall, and my mother said he was still growing. He’d come to us a recalcitrant, stubborn boy, having lied about his age to join the British Army, and nearly found himself in a cell before he’d been here six months. My father, seeing more in the rebellious boy than others had, made him his servant and set about taming him. Simon, he soon discovered, had come from a very good family and had been well educated. What had sent him haring off to become a soldier I didn’t know, but I’d grown so accustomed to having him underfoot and keeping an eye on me when my father was busy that he was now almost a member of the family. In fact I could barely remember a time when he wasn’t there. Sometimes I saw my father treating Simon as the son he’d never had. I wanted to be jealous, but I liked Simon too much to feel anything but relief that he hadn’t been court-martialed and shot before my father took an interest in him. He’d saved me from countless escapades that might have incurred the wrath of my mother and he sometimes had been my co-conspirator in mischief as well.

But not today.

Simon had left his own mount with my syce, and as he gave me a foot up to my saddle, he told the groom what he thought of him for allowing me to come to the village without a proper escort.

The syce listened soberly, but when Simon’s back was turned, gave me a sheepish smile that said he forgave me for getting him into trouble.

We trotted back to the cantonment, Simon smuggled me in through the kitchen, and my ayah, my nurse, was waiting, scolding me as she led me to my room. My clothes were laid out on the bed, and I bathed my face and hands, put them on quickly, and stood still while the ayah brushed out my long hair, bringing out the red-gold strands that kept it from being a mousy light brown.

She stood back to take a long look at me. “You’ll do,” she told me in Hindi. “Now quickly before the governess woman comes to find you.”

I hurried down the passage, took a deep breath at the door to what would have been called a small drawing room in England, and tapped lightly before opening it.

“There you are,” my mother said brightly, and I knew then she’d had to send Simon to find me—he hadn’t come on his own.

The Maharani smiled at me as I curtsied. “Come and embrace me, child. Are you feverish? Your cheeks are pink.”

I’d been hurrying, but I couldn’t tell her that. “A touch of sun. I went riding this morning.”

“Without your bonnet? My dear, you must remember you aren’t used to this sun.”

She was an old friend of my father’s, her husband one of the strongest supporters of the British presence in his state. Forward thinking and intelligent, the Maharajah had tried to modernize his lands and introduce prosperity to his people, measures not always popular with his fellow princes or some members of his own family.

Tea was brought in and the conversation became general. But I could sense that before I’d arrived, the Maharani and my mother had been talking about something they didn’t wish me to overhear. There was a tension in both women that was unusual.

I’d always thought the Maharani was beautiful. Slim and attractive, her dark eyes lined with kohl to make them even more exotic, she wore silks woven with gold and silver threads, and the ends of her saris were almost stiff with heavy, shimmering embroidery. The pearls she wore were legendary—long ropes that must weigh on her neck, and the most perfect I’d ever seen in size and quality. On her fingers were huge stones set in gold. Burmese rubies caught the light, along with first water diamonds, sapphires, and even a large square-cut emerald. But she wasn’t at all stuffy. She sat in my mother’s parlor as comfortably as if she were on the silk and jewel-encrusted cushions in a room three times this size.

As I took my place beside her, I realized she’d dismissed her servants—they were probably having their own tea in my mother’s sitting room—and that was another sign that the two women had been holding a very private conversation.

My father came in soon afterward. Tall and handsome in his uniform, he bent over the Maharani’s hand and kissed her fingertips. She laughed up at him, and patted the seat on the other side of her. “Come and tell me what you have been doing.”

My father, a major at this stage in his career, entertained her with humorous stories, and she laughed and clapped her hands in delight.

“Richard, you make soldiering seem so amusing. And all the while I know you are lying to me in the politest possible way.”

He laughed as well, and then with a glance toward me, sitting quietly as I turned the pages of the new book she’d brought me, gave her his view of what was happening politically. None of us ever forgot the dreadful Sepoy Mutiny of 1857, even though it was decades in the past. We never took our safety or the loyalty of the men who served in the army or worked in our houses for granted. I’d been trained from childhood to obey instantly if there was the least sign of trouble. The irrefutable fact was, the British were outnumbered thousands to one, and we could as easily be murdered in our beds as not, if anything went wrong.

It was one of the many reasons parents sent their children to England and safety, to be educated and brought up far away from India. My parents, wiser than most, had kept me with them.

The Maharani listened intently to what he was saying, and then suggested that my father might like to accompany her on a walk in the gardens to see the roses. My mother understood that this wasn’t an idle flirtation—it was their only chance to speak freely without being overheard.

When my father had escorted her through the double doors giving onto the verandah, my mother said to me in a low voice, “It’s as well you know, my dear. That cousin of the Maharajah’s has been causing a great deal of trouble again over some of the reforms being put into place. His Highness has sent his wife to visit us as an opportunity to tell Richard what’s happening. He’ll know how best to advise Colonel Haldane and consider what we can do to help.”

“Will they be all right?” I asked anxiously. For I was very fond of the Maharani and I liked her husband as well. He’d been educated in Britain, and his friends there had called him Harry. His son, my age, and his daughter, a year or so older, had been my playmates since I was in leading strings.

“I’m sure they’ll be fine,” my mother told me, but there was a tiny echo of doubt in her voice.

I said, “Is there anything that Father can do? Or the colonel? To support the Maharajah?” But that I knew could be a double-edged sword, giving his enemies cause to claim he lived in the pocket of the British. It had been difficult, persuading many of the Indian princes to give up their feudal power for the greater good, relinquishing so much authority to the British Crown. The Maharajah’s son, like his father, was to be educated at Eton, leaving in August with his entourage. All of a sudden it dawned on me that possibly he was being sent to where he would be safe.

“I daresay there will be something.” Again that tiny echo of doubt in her voice.

At that moment, my father returned with the Maharani, and they smiled as they came through the door. But I’d seen, as they stepped onto the wide verandah, that they hadn’t been smiling then.

The Maharani took her leave soon after. She often invited me to come and stay, but this time there was no mention of it.

We followed the Maharani and her entourage out to where her motorcar waited. I remembered that the first time I’d seen her, I was sadly disappointed that she hadn’t arrived on an elephant. Now, as my father was handing her into the rear of the motorcar, I looked at her guard, always handsomely dressed, plumes in their caps, sitting astride lovely black horses. Behind them was an assortment of grooms, and as her driver set out for the compound gates, I realized that I’d seen one of those grooms before. It was in the village not an hour ago, and he’d been standing behind one of the stalls near the fortune-teller’s tent, talking to a man with a long scar on his face. But what could he possibly have been doing there?

I touched my father’s arm. “That groom—I’m sure I saw him today in the village. But he wasn’t wearing the Maharani’s livery at the time.”

My father turned quickly. “Tell me.”

If I explained what I’d seen, it would mean confessing to my own escapade. But I could hear the fortune-teller’s voice again: The life of someone you care for is in grave danger. My child, you must go now. Before it is too late.

Had she been telling my fortune at that point? Or warning me? Had she heard something? Gossip flew about the marketplace like birds on the wing.

Had it been said in an entirely different tone of voice, not the singsong of a pretend trance?

“The village fortune-teller. I think she knew something. It was after Simon had come into the tent, you see. Perhaps the warning was meant for him or even for both of us. Please? Ask Simon.”

. . . You must go now. Before it is too late.

If I’d lingered at the bazaar, I’d have arrived too late for the Maharani’s visit. Go with this man, she must have meant. Now. Before it’s too late.

Of course it was known that the Maharani would be calling on my mother. Her entourage would have been seen arriving at the compound. Everyone talked about whatever the Maharajah or his family did. A new parrot, a new motorcar, a new jewel, a new elephant—it didn’t matter, the news would spread on the wind.

My father said urgently to me, “I can’t go to the colonel with only the information I’ve collected from my daughter, my batman, and a fortune-teller. What else do you know? You must tell me.”

“I don’t know anything else—” I began, beginning to worry in earnest now.

From behind us, Simon cleared his throat. I’d forgotten he was there.

“Because of the heat today, your men haven’t been out on patrol yet.”

My father wheeled. “You’re right. Simon, go and tell them to be ready to ride in five minutes. And make certain each man has a rifle and a pistol. With double the usual amount of ammunition for both.” To me he said, “Go inside. Tell your mother what is happening.”

“But the Maharani,” I argued. “I’m worried about her.” Something else occurred to me. “She didn’t invite me to visit.”

“Yes, she was worried. She didn’t want you in the middle of whatever might happen in the next ten days. But you’re right about one thing. It’s happening now, not later. Go on, tell your mother. We might not be back for a while.”

I turned and, lifting my skirts, ran across the parade ground to our gate. The gatekeeper tried to stop me, but I broke away. Then I realized what he was saying.

“Little memsahib, wait.”

I came to a skidding stop. I could hear my governess calling from the verandah, “Elizabeth! Decorum.”

Ignoring her, I said to the porter, “What is it?”

“Three of the men in the Maharani’s escort are new. And two of the grooms were armed. I found it strange. Should I tell the Major Sahib?”

In their brilliant uniforms and turban caps, her escort looked so much alike I’d often thought to myself they must be brothers. It was Simon who told me that they were all from the same area where the Maharani had been brought up. Her own loyal people. But what about the new men?

“Was one of the new escorts a man with a scar?” I hadn’t noticed him on one of the dark horses, but our gatekeeper would have more time to inspect them as they waited for the Maharani.

“Yes, little memsahib.”

I thanked him, turned again and ran as fast as I could toward the lines. I could already hear the jingle of harness, the snorts of the horses, eager for a run, and the voices of the men as they prepared to mount.

Turning the corner beside the stables, I slammed into someone coming fast the other way, nearly knocking the breath out of me.

Hands grasped my shoulders, setting me back on my feet. I looked up. It was Simon.

“What are you doing here? Go on, go back to the house.”

I caught his hand. “Simon, listen.” I gave him the message from the gatekeeper.

Simon, frowning, said, “Why didn’t he tell your father? Or the Maharani’s aide-de-camp?”

“I don’t know—yes, I do, my father was already on his way to the lines. He didn’t come back to the house after the Maharani had left.”

“Good girl,” Simon told me. “Now go. They won’t wait for me.”

He raced down to the lines, caught the reins of his horse from one of the sergeants, and swung into the saddle. I watched as the troop formed up on command and headed out into the open country beyond the cantonment. Simon waited until they were wheeling toward the north, where the Maharani had come from, then spurred his mount to where my father rode next to Captain Dixon. Their heads were close for a moment, and then Simon fell back to his place in the ranks.

Relieved, I walked briskly back to the house, and listened to Miss Stewart’s scolding with as much repentance as I could muster. When she had finished, ordering me to my room at once, I begged her first to let me give my mother the message from my father.

She relented—she had, I thought, a fondness for my father than she had kept concealed with prim care—and let me go into the parlor, where my mother was looking at the book the Maharani had brought me.

“This is very interesting, Bess,” she began, then looked at me more intently. “What is it? What’s happened?”

Walking across the room to stand by her chair, I whispered my news, even including my visit to the fortune-teller. Outside on the verandah the men who sat cross-legged and kept the fans moving above our heads in the heat were singing softly to themselves, but I took no chances at being overheard.

My mother listened carefully. “Well done, Bess,” she said, when I’d finished. “But Simon’s right, you mustn’t go into the bazaar alone. It isn’t wise.”

“But how did the fortune-teller know something was wrong?” I asked. “I refuse to believe she could see into the future.”

“She could have overheard something.” She sat there, the book closed on her finger to hold her place, her gaze thoughtful. “Fortune-tellers must know a variety of dialects, otherwise they couldn’t ply their trade all across the country. Someone who thought he was speaking confidentially might have been within hearing of her tent.”

Miss Stewart tapped politely at the door, then came into the room. “You’ve spoken to your mother, Elizabeth. Now to your room.”

With a sigh, I took my punishment without complaint, but I sat at the windows of my room, longing to be riding with my father and Simon and the men in his command. What was happening? Had they caught up to the entourage? This had been a private visit, not an official one. The Maharani had come with only a small escort. Perhaps, I thought, so as not to raise suspicion?

What was the point of the warning? Was she to be killed? Or captured and held to make her husband do as he was told? He loved his wife, it had been more than an arranged marriage. Would he agree to her kidnappers’ demands? Yes, surely he would, if that would save her from death or torture or mutilation. I shivered at the thought. But the cousin who was giving the Maharajah so much trouble was a wild sort, the son of the Maharajah’s father’s favorite concubine, spoiled and always ungrateful for his education and position. Until the Maharajah’s son had been born, this cousin had touted himself as the heir to the throne, much to the annoyance of the state and the British government. And then I remembered a story I’d heard when first we came to this province. The Maharajah’s only brother, the only man who stood between the Maharajah and this cousin, had been trampled by an elephant gone rogue. Or had it? That had been shortly after the Maharajah had taken a wife. There were several versions of what had happened. Of course elephants did sometimes turn rogue. It was why ceremonial elephants were usually female. But they could be goaded into action as well.

I couldn’t sit there, simply waiting. I slipped out my window, hurried through the garden—avoiding the gate, where I’d be seen—and sat down on a tree trunk by the wall that surrounded our compound. A breeze touched my face, lifting tendrils of hair, blessedly cool. And somewhere in the distance I heard a rumble of thunder.

Or was it gunfire?

I moved into the open, scanning the sky. This was the hot season, not the rainy season. There wasn’t a cloud to be seen in any direction.

Gunfire then. It must be. And it went on for several minutes before the volleys grew more ragged.

My heart was in my throat. My father—Simon—men in the ranks I’d known for years—they were all out there, in danger. I strained to listen.

It seemed to be coming nearer. Had the troublemakers been routed? But why were they coming back this way? To hide in the village until they could manage to escape? It didn’t make any sense. Who would protect them?

I could hear horses now, coming fast.

I sat there, straining my ears to listen. I almost missed the flash of color on the far side of the garden. There it was again, and all at once I heard Miss Stewart scream. It came from the summerhouse, the little wicker house where we sometimes sat in the cool of the evening. Miss Stewart often went there to read.

I was on my feet and running before it dawned on me that to go to her rescue would mean putting myself in danger, and as the daughter of an officer, I was a far more important hostage than a governess. People were shouting now, the men who pulled the fans, the kitchen staff, the porter at the gate. I could hear my mother’s voice, and then she broke off in mid-word.

Had she been taken as well?

I ran for the low wall that surrounded our quarters, climbed over that into the next garden, which belonged to Captain Dixon and his wife, and raced toward the barracks. I burst through the door of the first one I came to. There were half a hundred men there, some of them just coming off duty, others getting ready to take their turn, and a handful sleeping or playing cards. At sight of me, a dozen men sprang to their feet, staring. Some of them were out of uniform, and a sergeant stepped forward at once, blocking my view, saying, “Miss Crawford—” in reprimand.

“Sergeant Barton,” I said, fighting for breath, “something’s wrong at our bungalow. There’s been a skirmish—the patrol. I think one of the men they’re chasing has come back to the house. They’ve got Miss Stewart, and possibly my mother—”

They hadn’t waited to hear me out. Sergeant Barton was saying grimly, “I told you it was gunfire, not rifle practice,” as he set me aside and hurried out the door.

I followed, in amongst the men who’d caught up their rifles. “Please, be careful of my mother—Miss Stewart—”

But they had already turned toward the gardens of the Dixon bungalow, next to ours, brushing past the porter at the gate. I saw the old man’s anxious face, and knew he must have heard the cries from my house.

We cut across the garden, and the men leapt over the low wall, bending low, using the trees and shrubs for protection as they made their way to this side of our bungalow. I could see the kitchen quarters now, the servants standing stock-still, looking toward the far side of the house, as quiet as if they’d been struck dumb.

I caught up with Sergeant Barton as he reached the side of the house and turned to deploy his men. “My window—” I pointed to it. He turned to see that it was open, in spite of the heat. Nodding, he motioned to two of his men, then to the window.

“They don’t know their way. I do,” I said quickly. “I can show them how to reach the other side of the house. They can see the summerhouse from my father’s study. I think that’s where whoever it is found Miss Stewart.”

He stared at me for a moment, then nodded again. This time he boosted me up and back through the window.

Just then I heard the patrol coming into the horse lines. Leaning out, I whispered, “My father—he’s back. Someone must warn him, or he may be walking into an ambush.”

The sergeant turned to order one of his men to the horse lines, and I took the opportunity to walk quietly across my room to the closed door. I listened carefully, but didn’t hear anyone. Two privates, cursing under their breath, were following me into my room. I put my finger to my lips, and gently, slowly, opened the door into the passage.

All was quiet. Too quiet. I gestured for the two men to follow me, and I crept as silently as I could down the passage to my father’s study. That door stood open—he hadn’t come back to shut it after seeing the Maharani off. I ducked low, so that I couldn’t be seen by anyone watching the study windows. When I could do it safely, I got to my feet and carefully peered around the curtains.

I could see the summerhouse, just as I knew I could. Miss Stewart was standing in the doorway, and even from here I could see that she was trembling. In the shadows behind her, there was only darkness. And then I saw movement, and the glint of light on what was surely a revolver. Whoever he was, he was kneeling just behind her, hidden from view by her skirts.

But where was my mother?

The two men had caught up with me, and I told them in a whisper what I’d seen.

“She’s simply standing there, a decoy. With someone holding a revolver behind her. I don’t see my mother. I don’t know where she is.”

And then I could hear Miss Stewart’s voice. It was hardly recognizable, quavering, high pitched, clearly badly frightened. “Mrs. Crawford? Please—please come out. He’ll shoot me if you don’t. Please?”

My mother wasn’t there! I breathed a sigh of relief. But what to do to save Miss Stewart?

The sergeant had crept up behind us in the study, and I was sure he’d heard her plea.

“Where do you think your mother is?” he asked me in a hoarse whisper.

“In her parlor. It’s where I left her a little while ago.”

“Go to her. Carefully, now! Ask her to keep them occupied in the summerhouse while some of my men try to circle it.”

I nodded, then made my way out of the study. Creeping down the passage again, I saw that the parlor door was also standing open. Dropping to my knees, I crawled to it and into the room.

Someone near the window whirled, and I saw the muzzle of a revolver pointed straight at me before my mother realized who was there and lowered it.

“Bess!” The word was little more than a hiss.

I crawled over to her, and she held my hand as I told her what the sergeant had said. “But you can’t go out there, or he’ll have two hostages. And that’s worse.”

Mother nodded, then it was her turn to put her finger to her lips, just as Miss Stewart called again.

Mother raised her voice. “I’m afraid. I’m too afraid,” she cried, and it was strange to hear a woman holding a revolver pleading fear.

“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.

Chapter 2

IT WAS SIMON who came into London to fetch me. He had a bruise along his jaw line, still a dark shade of purple and blue. I glanced at it but said nothing. It wouldn’t be the first time an overeager recruit had put more enthusiasm than ability into showing his mettle. Or some assignment in France had resulted in unexpected action.

He’d been a part of my life as long as I could remember. First as a young recruit who made his own life and my father’s miserable for reasons I’d never been told. My father had, in his usual fashion of keeping his enemies close, promoted the rebellious youngster to the position of batman—an officer’s personal servant. Out of that simple solution had grown a friendship that had endured much over the years, and resulted in Simon becoming one of the youngest Sergeant-Majors in the British Army. An honorary position usually won after years of service, I might add.

He now lived in the cottage just through the wood at the bottom of our garden. That is, when he was not off somewhere at the behest of the War Office.

As he set my kit in the rear seat, then opened the door for me, Simon commented, “Your mother has already seen to a fresh uniform. I was to tell you that before you asked to be taken round the shops today.”

“Of course she has. I should have guessed. Will they be coming to London as well? My mother and the Colonel Sahib?”

“The Colonel is away. Your mother was making noises that sounded to me very much like decisions on what hat would look best.”

I laughed. Rested, eager to see my parents, I was glad to be in Simon’s motorcar, the bonnet pointed toward Somerset.

Simon glanced at me. “You look much better than the last time I saw you.”

“Amazing what a little sleep will do.”

He laughed in his turn, that deep chuckle that meant he was truly amused.

It was a long but easy journey to Somerset, and my mother was there on the steps to greet me as the motorcar pulled up. It was only for two nights—but I was at home.

I LEFT SOMERSET very early on Monday morning, my new uniform packed in tissue paper in the rear seat of Simon’s motorcar, to prevent crushing it. My mother, much to her disappointment, couldn’t come. There was a new widow to call on, the wife of a young lieutenant in the regiment that had once been my father’s. The present Colonel’s lady was at the bedside of her very ill sister, and Mother had volunteered to take her place.

According to the letter I’d received, I would have an opportunity to meet my patient, Sergeant Wilkins, in the early evening when he arrived in London, and then tomorrow I would escort him to his engagement at the palace. His bandages would be seen to before he came down from the hospital in Shrewsbury, and my role was a ceremonial one, unless of course he had an unexpected setback.

King George was popular—a family man himself, he had guided us through the trying years of war, a quiet strength that had given all of us courage.

Simon escorted me to the hotel to call on Sergeant Wilkins. He knocked on the door, and we heard the patient call, “Come!”

We walked in to find him lying propped up in bed, his well-padded left leg a long hump under the coverlet, his right arm in a sling. A third bandage encircled his head. I couldn’t see the color of his hair, but I thought it might be fair, judging from his eyebrows. His blue eyes were—for lack of a better word—troubled. I thought perhaps he was in more pain than he cared to admit, or perhaps the journey down from Shrewsbury had been harder than he’d expected.

“Hullo,” he said, surveying us. “It’s good to see you again, Sister Crawford.”

“Sergeant Wilkins,” I said in acknowledgment, trying to place what I could see of his face. “How are you this evening?”

“I’m well enough, thank you. The orderly who brought me down from Shrewsbury has gone to fetch our dinners. He left me as comfortable as possible.”

We sat down in the only two chairs in the room, and I presented Simon.

“Sergeant-Major,” my patient said, nodding. “A lot of fuss over nothing,” he went on. “But it’s good for morale, they tell me.”

“Machine-gun nest, was it?” Simon asked.

“Yes. I tossed in a grenade, but they were still firing, and that was unexpected. I discovered later that the grenade was a dud. There was nothing left but to finish the task myself.”

Small wonder he was being decorated for valor. Then I realized that Simon must have looked up the sergeant’s record.

They talked about the war, and then an orderly, an older man by the name of Thompson, came in with a covered tray, and we took our leave.

Walking down the hotel passage to the stairs, I said, “I’ve dealt with so many wounded. It isn’t surprising I should forget some of their names. But not their wounds.”

“It’s more than likely he was misinformed about the Sister who sent him back to the Field Hospital.”

“Yes, that’s true.”

Many men were grateful to us for saving life and—sometimes more important to them—limbs. The only angry tirades I’d endured were when someone came out of surgery without a limb and blamed me for letting it happen. The men knew, of course, that I’d had nothing to do with the decision to amputate, but I was there, and their fear and shock were very real.

I’d taken a room of my own at The Monarch to be available if Sergeant Wilkins needed care, even though Thompson was staying in his room. But when I looked in on them before going to bed, he was quietly sleeping. And the orderly was sitting by the lamp, reading. He nodded to me, and I left without speaking.

The next afternoon, at the time appointed, I went down the passage to collect my patient.

He was ready, the parts of his uniform that had had to be cut away to accommodate his bandages skillfully pinned out of sight by the orderly.

I said after greeting Thompson, “I’m to bring him back here after the ceremony?”

“If you would, please, Sister. And he’ll be in your care until tomorrow morning when the hospital sends someone to collect him. I’m to return to France tonight.”

“Fair enough. His treatment schedule and list of medicines are all in order?”

“Yes, Sister. I’ve set them on the table there at the window. There are powders to help him sleep, as well. Shouldn’t be any trouble. The Sister in charge at Shrewsbury asked me not to change the dressings, just to refresh the bandaging. But he’ll need them replaced before he takes the train again. The orderly they’re sending to bring him back will see to that as well.”

We settled Sergeant Wilkins in his invalid chair, covering his legs with a blanket. Thompson helped me wheel him out to the lift and down to Reception.

A motorcar was waiting for us, and after we had stowed the sergeant safely in the rear seat, I wished Thompson well in France, then joined my patient. In no time we were arriving at the gates of Buckingham Palace, our papers carefully checked by the policeman on duty.

Wilkins gave me a wry, nervous grin. “The machine-gun nest wasn’t this bad. I wonder if anyone has ever fainted from sheer anticipation.”

“Not in my charge,” I said briskly, with a smile.

We were through the gates and arriving at the portico where we were to alight.

There, red carpeted stairs loomed before us, and Wilkins said, “Oh dear.”

But footmen in uniform were there to help him out of the motorcar, into his chair again, and to carry him up the short flight of stairs to the main reception hall.

Another, far more formidable, staircase met us there. Again, the Palace was well prepared. Unhappily they had had four years of practice. I followed the two tall footmen bearing the invalid chair and the sergeant, his face grim, to the landing and then to the top of the steps. Above us was a glorious painted ceiling, and enormous paintings surrounded us. But I didn’t think Sergeant Wilkins saw them.

He hadn’t expected this awkwardness, that was clear enough, but there was no way around it. One of the footmen leaned over and said something I couldn’t catch as they set down the invalid chair.

The sergeant’s face cleared, and he smiled.

Another man in dress uniform met us there, taking over from the footmen, giving us the instructions we needed before proceeding to an antechamber where we were to wait until all of the recipients had arrived. Around us were men on crutches, others using canes, and quite a few in invalid chairs like Sergeant Wilkins’s. Most of them were accompanied by family members, and I wondered if any of the sergeant’s family planned to attend. So far no one had come up to us.

I also saw a number of men and women in sober black, standing apart, a mixture of pride and grief in their drawn faces. They were to receive medals given posthumously to husbands, brothers, and sons. I felt a wave of sadness.

Wilkins was less nervous now, in spite of the grandeur of this room, and I cast a quick glance over his uniform and his bandages, making certain that everything was as it should be after the short journey.

Watching me, the sergeant said, “Do I pass muster?”

“Indeed you do. Quite handsomely.”

The doors at the far end of the antechamber opened, and we were led into the Audience Chamber, where the ceremony would take place. It was a regal crimson and gold, intended to impress those who were to be honored, to show how they were valued by their King and Country. At a little distance from the throne, rows of chairs had been set out for the men who would be decorated, and a second section was set aside for family members. I found there was a space waiting for the sergeant’s invalid chair, with a seat next to it for me. All the rows were soon filled.

We were given final instructions. I saw that I was the only Sister present, and I sat there quietly, waiting to stand behind my charge when the King entered. Sergeant Wilkins was trying to look around him without appearing to stare, and I hoped he was savoring the moment. Or was he looking for someone?

“Is your family here?” I quietly asked him. If they were coming, they were very nearly going to be late.

“Alas, no,” he said briefly.

And then behind us the great doors we’d come through were closed, and in a few moments, the King walked into the room from another door.

He was in full uniform, his beard carefully trimmed, but nothing could disguise the circles beneath his eyes or the lines in his face. Instead of ascending his throne, as I’d expected him to, he stood before us with only his equerries and a handful of officers in attendance.

The ceremony moved forward with dignity, the announcements of names and award and a brief summary of the act of heroism were made clearly, the men stepping forward one at a time, spending a brief moment in private conversation with their grateful sovereign, and then moving back to the rows of seats.

When our turn came, I gently pushed the chair forward so that the sergeant was directly in front of the King. An equerry removed the decoration from its polished wooden box and passed it to the King.

He stepped forward, bent down without in any way embarrassing a man who could not rise and bow, and pinned the medal to the pocket of his blouse. Straightening again, the King spoke to Sergeant Wilkins.

“We hope your wounds are healing well? Are you in any pain?”

“They are healing, Your Majesty, and the pain is bearable. I look forward to rejoining my regiment as soon as possible.”

The King nodded. “Your country is grateful for your courage and your fortitude. The Queen and I have visited so many hospitals, and we know the cost of this war. We wish you well, Sergeant. And a speedy recovery.”

“Thank you, Sir.”

The King turned to me. I wasn’t expecting to be noticed.

“Sister Crawford. Remember me to your father. I have known the Colonel for some time, and he has served his country well in this war.”

“Thank you, Sir. I shall be happy to tell him.”

The King nodded, and I moved the wheeled chair back to its original place as the next recipient was summoned to be decorated.

Sergeant Wilkins cast me an interested glance then turned back to the ceremony. Some twenty minutes later, the audience was over. The King was escorted from the room, and then the men turned to meet their families and be congratulated, touched tearfully by wives and mothers, hands heartily shaken by their proud fathers.

There was no family to congratulate Sergeant Wilkins, and so I said the words for them.

He seemed surprised, then thanked me. I thought he was tiring, sitting for so long in his chair, cushions notwithstanding, and as I began to push him toward the tall double doors, they opened as if at a signal, and someone was there to see to it that we were guided to the portico and our motorcar summoned from the queue.

It was not until he was settled in the rear seat and we were moving sedately toward the opening Palace gates that Sergeant Wilkins said, “I didn’t know your father was a Colonel.”

“He’s retired from active service,” I said evasively.

“But he’s in uniform, he still serves his country. According to the King.” He turned to look at me as we passed through the gates.

Everyone was in uniform. Even the wounded had special ones to wear while recuperating to show the world they had done their duty.

Still, even though my father—and Simon—had left the regiment, because of their vast experience both of them had been recalled to duty in 1914, ostensibly to help in the training of badly needed new recruits with no military experience. Of course it went far beyond that, although not even my mother knew precisely what either of them did. More than once I’d encountered Simon in France, when he was on some mission or other.

“Yes, he was very happy when the Army found a use for him, although I daresay he’d have been much happier if they’d sent him back to the regiment,” I answered lightly. “I think he misses that.”

Whatever my father—and Simon—were doing to help King and Country, it was kept quiet. They appeared and disappeared without warning, and I knew it was not something to be talked about.

But Sergeant Wilkins didn’t say anything more.

We drove in silence to The Monarch Hotel, and there he was lifted once more into his chair and I wheeled him across Reception to the lift. Several people noticed us and there was a smattering of applause as we passed, an account of our afternoon having made the rounds.

The sergeant nodded his thanks, but I thought he would have preferred not to be such a center of attention. I’d found this to be true of many decorated men. They had done what they had done for their comrades, not for public acclaim.

The lift doors closed on us and he sighed with relief. “That was unexpected.”

“I’m sure the hotel was pleased to have you staying here.”

“I’m no hero,” he said sharply. “What I did had to be done. And there was an end to it.”

I didn’t answer him. The lift doors opened, and we moved down the passage to his room.

When I got him there, he said, “Don’t fuss. Please.”

“Your bandages are fresh. There’s a list of medications on the table. I’ll see what you ought to be taking just now.”

“Sister Crawford.”

I turned toward him.

“Please. I have a few friends who would like to step in tonight. Nothing more than a brief word. If I take my powders now, and rest awhile, will you allow me to speak to them? I’m returning to hospital tomorrow, early. It will be my only chance.”

“There’s your dinner,” I pointed out.

“I’m not hungry. I ate a very good breakfast and had an excellent lunch. Thompson saw to that. I’d rather just—these men were—I haven’t seen them since I was wounded and left France.” His voice cracked. “They recovered faster than I did, and they’re sailing themselves in a matter of days. Surely you understand?”

I wasn’t happy about this. Still, his wounds had healed well enough for him to make the journey to London. And there had been no one at the ceremony from his family. Perhaps seeing men he’d served with would be just the thing. Sometimes healing the body also meant healing the mind. Something was troubling him. It was in his eyes, in the lines about his mouth. And not just the grim lines of pain.

“There will be no drinking, no carousing.”

He smiled wryly. “I give you my word. Besides . . .” He shrugged. “It’s not a time for that, is it?”

With reluctance, I let him have his way. “I’ll come back at nine o’clock, shall I, to see if you need anything. And to give you your last powder. I’ll expect your friends to be gone by that time. You’ve a long day ahead of you tomorrow, traveling.”

“Better still, leave the next powder by my cup. I’ll take it after my friends go. You can trust me to do it right. God knows, I’ve been taking them long enough.”

I had the briefest frisson of fear. He wasn’t planning on doing himself a harm, was he? The powders could kill, in the wrong amount.

As if he understood what I was thinking, he added, “I have every reason to live, Sister. I just have to heal first.”

It was against the rules to let him take his own powders. And I said as much.

“There’s your duty. I understand. All right, come in at nine o’clock if you must. I don’t mind.” There was resignation in his voice.

He’d been cooped up in hospital for months. And sometimes a little relaxation of the rules could give a patient a fresh start, renewing his belief in his recovery and his eventual return to duty. It was what so many of them wanted.

I warned, “If you’re foolish tonight, you could set back your recovery by weeks. Months even. You’ve come too far to take that risk.”

He said, his voice level and yet forceful, “A medal doesn’t buy me a place on a transport ship. Only the doctor can do that.”

It was reassuring. I took a deep breath. I was responsible for his welfare—but I was not his jailer.

I put the powder by his cup. Then I got him into bed, gave him his afternoon medicines, and handed him the book he’d been reading. “I’ll leave the lamp on beside your bed. When the last friend says good night, he can see to it for you, if you like. If he’s sober enough to find the door in the dark.”

Sergeant Wilkins laughed. “They’re not much for drinking. My friends. We’ve been through too much. Besides, it doesn’t help. Terry will probably be the last to leave. And he can find his way anywhere in the dark.”

“Good enough,” I replied, and then, with one last glance around, I started for the door.

“Could you move the water jug closer to hand? Several of those powders leave me thirsty.”

I moved the jug to where he could easily reach it, and he lifted his good hand in a friendly wave, settling back against his pillows as I walked to the door.

I closed it behind me, and went on down the passage to my own room.

Simon was waiting there for me.

“Did it go well? The ceremony?”

“Very well.” I told him what had transpired, and then added what the King had had to say about the Colonel Sahib.

Simon smiled. “He’ll be pleased. Shall I tell him, or will you?”

“I don’t think I’ll see him before I sail. I leave very early Thursday morning.”

“And what about your patient? Are you having his dinner sent up to him?”

I explained what we, Sergeant Wilkins and I, had decided.

“A little unusual, isn’t it?”

“Very. On the other hand, his injuries aren’t critical just now, or the Palace would have waited to summon him for the ceremony. This is just that slow, wearing time when there appears to be no progress. And then suddenly your exercises begin, and you wish yourself back in this limbo.”

“As I know very well,” Simon replied wryly. He’d been severely wounded not all that long ago. “If you have no other plans, I’ll take you to dinner.”

“I’d rather stay close to the hotel,” I said. “There’s a dining room downstairs.”

Simon rose from his chair. “Then I’ll give you a little time to rest, and return around six. A little early perhaps, but if you’re to look in on the sergeant later this evening, we shan’t have to dash upstairs at the last minute.”

I was grateful for his understanding.

He left, and kicking off my shoes, removing my apron and cap, I sat down in the chair that Simon had just vacated and sighed.

This brief interlude had brought me a little more time in England, but by Thursday I’d be eager to return to my duties in France. It was where my years of training and experience counted in the endless struggle to save lives. It had been difficult, exhausting, and stressful work often enough, and all of us in Queen Alexandra’s Imperial Military Nursing Service had had bad dreams from time to time, dreams we tried not to remember in the light of morning. But knowing we’d made a difference kept us going.

I must have drifted into a light sleep. And then my internal clock woke me at a little before five thirty. I was dressed and ready when Simon knocked on my door just at six.

He smiled and said, “I expected to find you asleep.”

I returned the smile. “After visiting Buckingham Palace? How could I sleep?” I replied, stepping out into the passage. It was quiet. I glanced down toward the sergeant’s door, but all was quiet in that direction as well. If his friends were coming, they’d been thoughtful enough to give him time to rest before descending on him. That was reassuring.

We went down to the hotel’s dining room, where Simon had already booked a table, and it was a pleasant dinner. I wished my mother could have been here—she would have enjoyed the outing—but Simon and I were always comfortable together.

We were still sitting there, talking over our after-dinner cup of tea, when Simon glanced at his watch and said, “It’s nearly nine o’clock. Go on up and look in on your patient. I’ll see to the account and then escort you safely to your room.”

I did just that, taking the lift and walking down to Sergeant Wilkins’s door. It was quiet, and I knocked softly.

There was no answer. And I couldn’t see a light under the door. His friends had come and gone, he was asleep.

I tried the door, found it locked. Frowning, I tried it again. This time it opened, as if it had been jammed, and I stepped into the doorway, listening.

I could just see the outline of Sergeant Wilkins’s body under the coverlet, but his breathing was so quiet and deep that I could hardly be sure I heard it.

Had he taken his powder, as he’d promised? After his friends had left?

On the floor next to the table by the bed, a crumpled bit of white paper lay, as if he’d accidently brushed it off as he put down his cup. Yes, all was well.

I listened a few seconds longer, then, satisfied, I closed the door again quite gently and walked on toward my own room. Simon was just stepping out of the lift.

“All well?”

“Yes, he’s asleep. I didn’t disturb him. He’s taken his evening powder, as he’d promised he would.”

“Good. All right, go inside and lock your door. I’ll come by tomorrow after you’ve seen the patient off to Shrewsbury. I’ll even take you to lunch.”

“Done. Thank you for dinner,” I said, and went into my room. I’d brought a book with me from Somerset and tried to read for a while, but I was in bed by ten thirty. The deep fatigue of France hadn’t quite left me, or perhaps it was the excitement of the ceremony at the Palace. At any rate, I was asleep before the hands on my little clock reached eleven.

About the Author

CHARLES TODD is the New York Times bestselling author of the Inspector Ian Rutledge mysteries, the Bess Crawford mysteries, and two stand-alone novels. A mother-and-son writing team, they live in Delaware and North Carolina, respectively.

Visit their website at www.charlestodd.com.

Visit www.AuthorTracker.com for exclusive information on your favorite HarperCollins authors.

Also by Charles Todd

The Ian Rutledge Mysteries

A Test of Wills

Wings of Fire

Search the Dark

Legacy of the Dead

Watchers of Time

A Fearsome Doubt

A Cold Treachery

A Long Shadow

A False Mirror

A Pale Horse

A Matter of Justice

The Red Door

A Lonely Death

The Confession

Proof of Guilt

Hunting Shadows

The Bess Crawford Mysteries

A Duty to the Dead

An Impartial Witness

A Bitter Truth

An Unmarked Grave

A Question of Honor

Other Fiction

The Murder Stone

The Walnut Tree

Copyright

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Excerpt from An Unwilling Accomplice copyright © 2014 by Charles Todd.

THE MAHARANI’S PEARLS. Copyright © 2014 by Charles Todd. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

EPub Edition JULY 2014 ISBN: 9780062369239

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

About the Publisher

Australia

HarperCollins Publishers (Australia) Pty. Ltd.

Level 13, 201 Elizabeth Street

Sydney, NSW 2000, Australia
http://www.harpercollins.com.au

Canada

HarperCollins Canada

2 Bloor Street East - 20th Floor

Toronto, ON, M4W, 1A8, Canada
http://www.harpercollins.ca

New Zealand

HarperCollins Publishers (New Zealand) Limited

P.O. Box 1

Auckland, New Zealand
http://www.harpercollins.co.nz

United Kingdom

HarperCollins Publishers Ltd.

77-85 Fulham Palace Road

London, W6 8JB, UK
http://www.harpercollins.co.uk

United States

HarperCollins Publishers Inc.

195 Broadway

New York, NY 10007
http://www.harpercollins.com