The Maharajah's Monkey by Natasha Narayan Read Free Book Online Page A

himself, for he had heard of a remarkable archaeological discovery he wanted to track down. So my friends and I sailed east, for it was not hard to persuade Rachel and Isaac’s absentminded guardian and Waldo’s spiritually inclined mother. Indeed Waldo’s mother began to trot out all sorts of romantic mumbo-jumbo on hearing of our trip, including the hope that her son would find “enlightenment” in India.
    Frankly, I was dying to reach Bombay. Dark clouds were looming over the horizon and the waters were choppy. It looked like we were in for some bad weather. Leaning over the upper deck watching the waves, I spotted a bowls game below in the third-class deck. I made my way down, when the worst of the busybodies, Mrs. Spragg, appeared. Clearly, she had pursued me to the lower deck.
    â€œQuite out of the question,” she declared loudly. Behind her I spotted the whey-faced figure of her son Edwin and behind him their inevitable guards. It seemed there was no school or tutor in the whole of England good enough for darling Edwin, so Mrs. Spragg had decided to take him back to India with her.
    â€œPardon?” I stammered, unable to believe my bad luck. To be caught twice by Memsahib Spragg in one morning!
    â€œMy dear Kathleen, you simply cannot mix with those on the lower deck. You are in danger of meeting steerage passengers and common sailors.”
    â€œThat’s hardly a danger.”
    â€œ
What?
” she spluttered, forgetting her manners.
    â€œI am merely going to play bowls.”
    â€œWith
them
?” Mrs. Spragg asked, looking through her silver-rimmed lorgnette at the crowd enjoying the game. By this memsahib’s lights they were a common lot, in threadbare clothes with rough manners. I thought they were far better company than the ladies and gentlemen on top deck.
    â€œThe young lady is a dab hand at the bowls,” a weather-beaten old salt who had overheard us declared. “She’s got a good eye and a steady hand.”
    â€œThis is scandalous,” declared Mrs. Spragg, shaking her lorgnette at the sailor. “If Miss Salter behaves like this in our cantonment in Baroda she will be cut dead! No one will receive her socially.”
    â€œNot pukka,” Edwin said, with a sly glance at me.
    â€œPardon?” I asked, puzzled.
    â€œNot the done thing.”
    â€œMy dear Kathleen, as you have no mother, it is up tome to provide moral and social guidance.” Grasping me roughly by the arm Mrs. Spragg drew me away from the bowls game. “You must learn some decorum.”
    I bit down the rebellious words I wanted to spit at Mrs. Spragg, as I tried to wriggle out of her grasp. A moment later something hard hit me in the shin, causing me to topple over. It was Edwin, who had sent a bowls ball rolling straight for me.
    â€œI do beg your pardon, Miss Salter,” Edwin smirked, offering his hand to me. “I don’t believe I know my own strength.”
    I glared at the boy, knowing he had done it on purpose. Ignoring his outstretched hand, I rose. I could bear it no longer; I had to flee from the combined Spragg forces. It was especially irritating as I had a particular reason for going down to the lower deck. We had been aboard the
Himalaya
for weeks without a sight of Gaston Champlon, the strange turban-wearing Indian or the monkey.
    That Indian. As I mused on him, a sort of foreboding took hold of me. I am an instinctive creature. My mind flies about making connections. Sometimes, even if I say so myself, they are spot-on. Sometimes my guesses are, well, wrong. But this time, I felt so
sure
.
    This shadowy Indian. The missing evil Maharajah of Baroda. Somehow they were linked. Maybe the mysteriousIndian was the Maharajah. Maybe he had kidnapped Champlon for some dreadful reason of his own. Or maybe the turbaned Indian was someone hired by Malharrao.
    My aunt, who I had counted on being my ally and teasing out my thinking with me, was