The Faraway Drums. Jon Cleary

suitcases still on the ground. ‘Righto, you’d better follow me. But I warn you – I shan’t be responsible for you.’

      ‘You are a sweet man.’ Magda Monday followed Farnol down the path, leaving her husband to struggle with the two suitcases. ‘So gallant.’

      Farnol just bowed his head, then looked up past her at her husband whose arms looked as if they were being pulled out of their sockets by the weight of the suitcases he carried. ‘Cannonballs, Mr Monday?’

      Monday managed a Hungarian smile, which can be read a dozen ways. ‘We shall enjoy the Major’s company, my dear. The English sense of humour is famous.’

      Mrs Monday put her hand out for Farnol to help her down a steep part of the path; she went past him on a wave of perfume that suggested she might have upset a bottle of it all over herself before getting off the train. He noticed that the buttons of her brown jacket were undone; her bodice was low-cut, exposing more bosom than one expected to see in India in the daytime. She saw the direction of his gaze and looked directly at him, turning her body slightly towards him. He knew a whore when she smiled at him.

      ‘Englishmen never treat their women with any sense of humour, do they, Major?’

      ‘Only when we bury them, madam. Our graveyards are full of husbands’ wit.’

      Bridie O’Brady, Lady Westbrook, the Ranee of Serog and now this one: Farnol could feel his latent misogynism rising sourly within him. He led the way down to the road, getting well ahead of them, and walked up to Baron von Albern, who stood beside the Ranee as they waited for horses to be hitched to the Ranee’s coach. The other horses were being saddled; final adjustments were being made to the howdahs on the elephants’ backs. None of the servants looked enthusiastic about the journey ahead and kept glancing over their shoulders up at the surrounding hills.

      ‘Herr Baron, those people coming down the path are Hungarians – the gentleman says he is a representative of Krupps. Do you know anything about him?’

      ‘Not much, Major.’ The Consul-General was straightforward, which may have explained why he had never risen to being an ambassador. ‘They only arrived two days ago. They stayed at the Hotel Cecil. Herr Monday paid a courtesy call on me.’

      ‘Was he intending to sell arms to anyone in Simla?’

      ‘I couldn’t say. He told me nothing about his business.’

      Then the Mondays came down on to the road. Zoltan Monday dropped the suitcases and began bending his arms as if he were trying to push them back into their sockets. Bridie and the others looked at the pair curiously, then all looked at Farnol. Curtly he explained who the newcomers were, saw the Ranee look at them with sharp interest when he mentioned the name Krupp. The Nawab, standing in front of his six wives, gave a bright smile of welcome to Madame Monday, but ignored her husband. Lady Westbrook sniffed loudly and Bridie made mental notes for her as-yet-unthought-of memoirs.

      ‘I am delighted to meet you all,’ said Magda, who would have introduced herself in the same way to every circle of Hell. At fifteen she had walked the Fisherman’s Bastion above Budapest looking for men; at twenty she had found Zoltan in the chandeliered lobby of the Astoria Hotel. She had trained herself for rebuffs as a boxer builds the muscles of his midriff to absorb punches. ‘I’m sure we shall have a very good journey together.’

      ‘It won’t be for want of your trying.’ The Ranee had already decided there were too many women in her caravan; she also recognized a possible mischief-maker. She got up into her coach. ‘Get in, Viola. You, too, Miss O’Brady.’

      ‘Thank you, Your Highness, but if I may I’d like to ride one of your horses with Major Farnol.’

      ‘As you wish.’ The Ranee, not trained for rebuffs, made no attempt to sound gracious. She turned her head away and looked down at the Hungarian woman. ‘Perhaps you had better ride with us, Madame Monday.’

      ‘Monday?’ Lady Westbrook had donned her two hats again and looked like a war-torn pagoda. She looked Magda up and down as the latter got into the coach and sat opposite her. She decided that Magda was riff-raff. ‘Is that your name or the day you are available?’

      Magda’s smile had the bright shine of a razor turned to the sun. ‘I have just been complimenting the Major on the English sense of humour.’ She moved sideways on the seat to make room for the bulk of the Baron. ‘We appear to have taken sides, Herr Baron. You and I against the British Empire.’

      The Baron put on his glasses, looked across at the ladies of the Empire. ‘I should never take sides against such a formidable force.’

      The procession got under way. Karim and two of the Nawab’s armed men rode up front on horses, with Farnol, Bridie and the Nawab immediately behind them. Then came the Ranee’s coach, the twelve elephants, their howdahs stuffed with the Nawab’s wives and all the luggage, and finally the rest of the horses ridden by Zoltan Monday and the Ranee’s and the Nawab’s escorts. All over India similar caravans were making their way towards the Great Durbar, but none of them had been forced to make their march in the way this one had been.