An Ensuing Evil and Others

THE EYE OF SHIVA

The harsh monsoon winds were rattling fiercely at the closed shutters of the British Residency building. The Residency itself stood on an exposed hillock, a little way above the crumbling banks of the now turbulent Viswamitri River as it frothed and plunged its way through the city of Baroda to empty into the broad Gulf of Khambhat. The building had been secured from the moaning wind and rain by the servants; the lamps were lit, and the male guests still lounged in the dining room, unperturbed by the rising noise of the storm outside.

The ladies had withdrawn, shepherded away by Lady Chetwynd Miller, the wife of the Resident, while the decanter of port began to pass sun-wise around the eight remaining men. The pungent odor of cigar smoke began to permeate the room.

“Well,” demanded Royston, a professional big-game hunter who was staying a few days in Baroda before pushing east to the Satpura mountains to hunt the large cats that stalked the ravines and darkened crevices there. “Well,” he repeated, “I think the time has come to stop teasing us, Your Excellency. We all know that you brought us here to see it. So where is it?”

There was a murmur of enthusiastic assent from the others gathered before the remnants of the evening meal.

Lord Chetwynd Miller raised a hand and smiled broadly. He was a sprightly sixty-year-old; a man who had spent his life in the service of the British Government of India and who now occupied the post of Resident in the Gujarat state of Baroda. He had been Resident in Baroda ever since the overthrow of the previous despotic Gaekwar or ruler. Baroda was still ruled by native princes who acknowledged the suzerain authority of the British Government in India but who had independence in all internal matters affecting their principality.

Five years previously a new Gaekwar, Savaji Rao III, had come to power. If the truth were known, he had deposed his predecessor with British advice and aid, for the previous Gaekwar had not been approved of by the civil servants of Delhi. Indeed, he had the temerity to go so far as to murder the former Resident, Colonel Phayre. But the British Raj had not wanted it to appear as though they were interfering directly in the affairs of Baroda. The state was to remain independent of the British Government of India. Indeed, the secret of the success of the British Raj in India was not in its direct rule of that vast subcontinent, with its teeming masses, but in its persuasion of some six hundred ruling princes to accept the British imperial suzerainty. Thus much of the government of India was in the hands of native hereditary princes who ruled half the land mass and one quarter of the population under the “approving” eye of the British Raj.

Baroda, since Savaji Rao III had taken power, was a peaceful city of beautiful buildings, of palaces, ornate gates, parks and avenues, standing as a great administrative center at the edge of cotton-rich plains and a thriving textile-producing industry. A port with access to the major sea lanes and a railway center with its steel railroads connecting it to all parts of the subcontinent.

After the establishment of the new regime in Baroda, the British Raj felt they needed a man who was able to keep firm control on British interests there. Lord Chetwynd Miller was chosen, for he had been many years in service in India. Indeed, it was going to be his last appointment in India. He had already decided that the time had come for retirement. He was preparing for the return to his estates near Shrewsbury close to the Welsh border before the year was out.

“Come on, Chetwynd,” urged Major Bill Foran, of the Eighth Bombay Infantry, whose task it was to protect the interests of the British Residency and the community of British traders who lived in Baroda. He was an old friend of the Resident. “Enough of this game of cat and mouse. You are dying to show it to us just as much as we are dying to see it.”

Lord Chetwynd Miller grinned. It was a boyish grin. He spread his hands in a deprecating gesture. It was true that he had been leading his guests on. He had invited them to see the Eye of Shiva and kept them waiting long enough.

He gazed around at them. Apart from Bill Foran, it could not be said that he really knew the other guests. It was one of those typical Residency dinner parties, whereby it was his duty to dine with any British dignitaries passing through Baroda. Lieutenant Tompkins, his ADC, had compiled this evening’s guest list.

Royston he knew by reputation. There was Father Cassian, a swarthy, secretive-looking Catholic priest who seemed totally unlike a missionary. He had learned that Cassian was a man of many interests-not the least of which was an interest in Hindu religion and mythology. There was Sir Rupert Harvey. A bluff, arrogant man, handsome in a sort of dissolute way. He had just arrived in Baroda and seemed to dabble in various forms of business. Then there was the tall languid Scotsman, James Gregg. Silent, taciturn and a curious way of staring at one as if gazing right through them. He was, according to the list, a mining engineer. For a mere mining engineer, Tompkins had observed earlier, Gregg could afford to stay at the best hotel in Baroda and did not seem to lack money.

The last guest sat at the bottom of the table, slightly apart from the others. It was Lord Chetwynd Millers solitary Indian guest, Inspector Ram Jayram, who, in spite of being a Bengali by birth, was employed by the Government of Baroda as its chief of detectives. Ram Jayram had a dry wit and a fund of fascinating stories, which made him a welcome guest to pass away the tedium of many soirees. That evening, however, he had been invited especially.

Word had come to Jayram’s office that an attempt was going to be made to rob the Residency that night, and Lord Chetwynd Miller had accepted Jayram’s request that he attend as a dinner guest so that he might keep a close eye on events. It was Jayram who suggested to the Resident that the potential thief might be found among the guests themselves. A suggestion that the Resident utterly discounted.

But the news of the Residents possession of the fabulous ruby-the Eye of Shiva-was the cause of much talk and speculation in the city. The Resident was not above such vanity that he did not want to display it to his guests on the one evening in which the ruby was his.

Lord Chetwynd Miller cleared his throat. “Gentlemen…,” he began hesitantly. “Gentlemen, you are right. I have kept you in suspense long enough. I have, indeed, invited you here, not only because I appreciate your company, but I want you to see the fabled Eye of Shiva before it is taken on board the SS Caledonia tomorrow morning for transportation to London.”

They sat back, expectantly watching their host.

Lord Chetwynd Miller nodded to Tompkins, who clapped his hands as a signal.

The dining room door opened, and Devi Bhadra, Chetwynd Millers majordomo, entered, pausing on the threshold to gaze inquiringly at the lieutenant.

“Bring it in now, Devi Bhadra,” instructed the ADC.

Devi Bhadra bowed slightly, no more than a slight gesture of the head, and withdrew.

A moment later he returned carrying before him an ornate tray on which was a box of red Indian gold with tiny glass panels in it. Through these panels everyone could see clearly a white velvet cushion on which was balanced a large red stone.

There was a silence while Devi Bhadra solemnly placed it on the table in front of the Resident and then withdrew in silence.

As the door shut behind him, almost on a signal, the company leaned toward the ornate box with gasps of surprise and envy at the perfection of the ruby that nestled tantalizingly on its cushion.

Father Cassian, who was nearest, pursed his lips and gave forth an unpriestly-like whistle. “Amazing, my dear sir. Absolutely!”

James Gregg blinked; otherwise, his stoic face showed no expression. “So this is the famous Eye of Shiva, eh? I’ll wager it has a whole history behind it?”

Royston snorted. “Damned right, Gregg. Many a person has died for that little stone there.”

“The stone, so it is said, is cursed.”

They swung round to look at the quiet Bengali. Jayram was smiling slightly. He had approved the Resident’s suggestion that if one of his guests was going to make an attempt on the jewel, it were better that the jewel be placed where everyone could see it so that such theft would be rendered virtually impossible.

“What d’you mean, eh?” snapped Sir Rupert Harvey irritably. It had become obvious during the evening that Harvey was one of those men who disliked mixing with “the natives” except on express matters of business. He was apparently not used to meeting Indians as his social equals and showed it.

It was Major Foran who answered. “The inspector-” Did he emphasize the Bengali’s rank just a little? “The inspector is absolutely right. There is a curse that goes with the stone, isn’t that right, Chetwynd?”

Lord Chetwynd Miller grinned and spread his hands. “Therein is the romance of the stone, my friends. Well, how can you have a famous stone without a history, or without a curse?”

“I believe I sense a story here,” drawled Gregg, reaching for his brandy, sniffing it before sipping gently.

“Will you tell it, sir?” encouraged Royston.

Lord Chetwynd Miller’s features bespoke that he would delight in nothing better than to tell them the story of his famous ruby-the Eye of Shiva.

“You all know that the stone is going to London as a private gift from Savaji Rao III to Her Majesty? Yesterday the stone was officially handed into my safekeeping as representative of Her Majesty. I have made the arrangements for it to be placed on the SS Caledonia tomorrow to be transported to London.”

“We all read the Times of India,” muttered Sir Rupert, but his sarcasm was ignored.

“Quite so,” Lord Chetwynd Miller said dryly. “The stone has a remarkable history. It constituted one of a pair of rubies which were the eyes of a statue of the Hindu god Shiva-”

“A god of reproduction,” chimed in Father Cassian, almost to himself. “Both benign and terrible, the male generative force of Vedic religion.”

“It is said,” went on the Resident, “that the statue stood in the ancient temple of Vira-bhadra in Betul country. It was supposedly of gold, encrusted with jewels, and its eyes were the two rubies. The story goes that during the suppression of the ‘Mutiny,’ a soldier named Colonel Vickers was sent to Betul to punish those who had taken part. He had a reputation for ruthlessness. I think he was involved with the massacre at Allahabad-”

“What was that?” demanded Gregg. “I know nothing of the history here.”

“Six thousand people, regardless of sex or age, were slaughtered at Allahabad by British troops as a reprisal,” explained Father Cassian in a quiet tone.

“The extreme ferocity with which the uprising was suppressed was born of fear,” explained Major Foran.

“Only way to treat damned rebels!” snapped Royston. “Hang a few, and the people will soon fall into line, eh?”

“In that particular case,” observed the Resident, screwing his face up in distaste, “the Sepoys who had taken part in the insurrection were strapped against the muzzles of cannons and blown apart as a lesson to others.”

“Military necessity,” snapped Major Foran, irritated by the implied criticism.

The Resident paused a moment and continued. “Well, it is said that Vickers sacked the temple of Vira-bhadra and took the rubies for himself while he ordered the rest of the statue melted down. This so enraged the local populace that they attacked Vickers and managed to reclaim the statue, taking it to a secret hiding place. Vickers was killed, and the rubies vanished. Stories permeated afterward that only one ruby was recovered by the guardians of the temple. A soldier managed to grab the other one from Vickers’s dying hand. He, in his turn, was killed, and the stone had a colorful history until it found its way into the hands of the Gaekwar of Baroda.”

Inspector Ram Jayram coughed politely. “It should be pointed out,” he said slowly, “that the Gaekwar in question was not Savaji Rao III but the despot whom he overthrew a few years ago.”

The Resident nodded agreement. “The jewel was found in the Gaekwar’s collection, and Savaji Rao thought it would be a courteous gesture to send the jewel to Her Majesty as a token of his friendship.”

Gregg sat staring at the red glistening stone with pursed lips. “A history as bloody as it looks,” he muttered. “The story is that all people who claim ownership of the stone, who are not legitimate owners, meet with bad ends.”

Sir Rupert chuckled cynically as he relit his cigar. “Could be that Savaji Rao has thought of that and wants no part of the stone? Better to pass it on quickly before the curse bites!”

Lieutenant Tompkins flushed slightly, wondering whether Sir Rupert was implying some discourtesy to the Queen-Empress. He was youthful, and this was his first appointment in India. It was all new to him and perplexing, especially the cynicism about Empire that he found prevalent among his fellow veteran colonials.

“The only curse, I am told, is that there are some Hindus who wish to return the stone to the statue,” Father Cassian observed.

Sir Rupert turned to Inspector Jayram with a grin that was more a sneer. “Is that so? Do you feel that the stone should belong back in the statue? You’re a Hindu, aren’t vou?”

Jayram returned the gaze of the businessman and smiled politely. “I am a Hindu, yes. Father Cassian refers to the wishes of a sect called the Vira-bhadra, whose temple the stone was taken from. They are worshippers of Shiva in his role of the wrathful avenger and herdsman of souls. For them he wears a necklace of skulls and a garland of snakes. He is the malevolent destroyer. I am not part of their sect.”

Sir Rupert snorted as if in cynical disbelief. “A Hindu is a Hindu,” he sneered.

“Ah, so?” Inspector Jayram did not appear in the least put out by the obvious insult. “I presume that you are a Christian, Sir Rupert?”

“Of course!” snapped the man. “What has that to do with anything?”

“Then, doubtless, you pay allegiance to the Bishop of Rome as Holy Father of the Universal Church?”

“Of course not… I am an Anglican,” growled Sir Rupert.

Jayram continued to smile blandly. “But a Christian is a Christian. Is this not so, Sir Rupert?”

Sir Rupert reddened as Father Cassian exploded in laughter. “He has you there,” he chuckled as his mirth subsided a little.

Jayram turned with an appreciative smile. “I believe that it was one of your fourth-century saints and martyrs of Rome, Pelagius, who said that labels are devices for saving people the trouble of thinking. Pelagius was the great friend of Augustine of Hippo, wasn’t he?”

Father Cassian smiled brightly and inclined his head. “You have a wide knowledge, Inspector.”

Sir Rupert growled angrily and was about to speak when Lord Chetwynd Miller interrupted. “It is true that the story of the curse emanated from the priests of the sect of Vira-bhadra, who continue to hunt for the stone.”

Royston lit a fresh cheroot. He preferred them to the cigars provided by their host.

“Well, it is an extraordinary stone. Would it be possible for me to handle it, Your Excellency?”

The Resident smiled indulgently. “It will be the last chance. When it gets to London, it will doubtless be locked away in the royal collection.”

He took a small key from his waistcoat pocket and bent forward, turning the tiny lock that secured the box and raising the lid so that the stone sparkled brightly on its pale bed of velvet.

He reached forward and took out the stone with an exaggerated air of carelessness and handed it to the eager Royston.

Royston held the stone up to the light between his thumb and forefinger and whistled appreciatively. “I’ve seen a few stones in my time, but this one is really awe inspiring. A perfect cut, too.”

“You know something about these things, Royston?” inquired Sir Rupert, interested.

Royston shrugged. “I don’t wish to give the impression that I am an expert, but I’ve traded a few stones in my time. My opinion is probably as good as the next mans.”

He passed the ruby to Father Cassian, who was seated next to him. The priest took the stone and held it to the light. His hand trembled slightly, but he assumed a calm voice. “It’s nice,” he conceded. “But the value, as I see it, is in the entire statue of the god. I place no value on solitary stones, but only in an overall work of art, in man’s endeavor to create something of beauty.”

Sir Rupert snorted as an indication of his disagreement with this philosophy and reached out a hand.

Father Cassian hesitated, still staring at the red stone.

At that moment there came the sound of an altercation outside. The abruptness of the noise caused everyone to pause. Lieutenant Tompkins sprang to his feet and strode to the door. As he opened it, Lady Chetwynd Miller, a small but determined woman in her mid-fifties, stood framed in the doorway.

“Forgive me interrupting, gentlemen,” she said with studied calm. Then looking toward her husband, she said quietly, “My dear, Devi Bhadra says the servants have caught a thief attempting to leave your study.”

Lord Chetwynd Miller gave a startled glance toward Inspector Jayram, then rose and made his way to the door. Tompldns stood aside as the Resident laid a reassuring hand on Lady Chetwynd Millers arm.

“Now then, dear, nothing to worry about. You go back to your ladies in the drawing room, and we’ll see to this.”

Lady Chetwynd Miller seemed reluctant but smiled briefly at the company before withdrawing. The Resident said to his ADC: “Ask Devi Bhadra to bring the rascal here into the dining room.”

He turned back with a thin smile toward Inspector Jayram. “It seems as if your intelligence was right. We have a prisoner for you to take away, Inspector.”

Jayram raised his hands in a curiously helpless gesture. “This is technically British soil, Excellency. But if you wish me to take charge?… Let us have a look at this man.”

At that moment, Lieutenant Tompkins returned with Devi Bhadra together with a burly Sepoy from Foran’s Eighth Bombay Infantry. They frog-marched a man into the dining room. The man was thin, wearing a dhoti, a dirty loincloth affected by Hindus, an equally dirty turban, and a loose robe open at the front. He wore a cheap jeweled pendant hung on a leather thong around his neck.

The Resident went back to his seat and gazed up with a hardened scowl. “Bring the man into the light and let us see him.”

The man was young, handsome, but his face was disfigured in a sullen expression. His head hung forward. Devi Bhadra prodded the man forward so that the light from the lanterns reflected on his face.

“I have searched him thoroughly, sahib. He has no weapons.”

“Do you speak English?” demanded Lord Chetwynd Miller.

The man did not reply.

The British Resident nodded to Devi Bhadra, who repeated the question in Gujarati, a language of the country. There was no response.

“Forgive me,” Inspector Jayram interrupted. “I believe the man might respond to Hindi.”

Devi Bhadra repeated his question, but there was no reply.

“Looks like your guess was wrong,” observed Royston.

Inspector Jayram rose leisurely and came to stand by the man. His eyes narrowed as he looked at the pendant. Then he broke into a staccato to which the captive jerked up his head and nodded sullenly.

Jayram turned to the Resident with an apologetic smile. “The man speaks a minor dialect called Munda. I have some knowledge of it. He is, therefore, from the Betul district.”

“Betul?” The Residents eyes widened as he caught the significance of the name.

Jayram indicated the pendant. “He wears the symbol of the cult of Vira-bhadra.”

“Does he? The beggar!” breathed Lord Chetwynd Miller.

“Well,” drawled Gregg. “If he were after this little item, he was out of luck. We had it here with us.”

He held up the ruby.

The captive saw it and gave a sharp intake of breath, moving as if to lunge forward but was held back by the powerful grip of Devi Bhadra and the Sepoy.

“So that’s it?” snapped Major Foran. “The beggar was coming to steal the stone?”

“Or return it to its rightful owners,” interposed Father Cassian calmly. “It depends on how you look at it.”

“How did you catch him, Devi Bhadra?” asked Foran, ignoring the priest.

“One of the maids heard a noise in your study, sahib,” said the man. “She called me, and I went to see if anything was amiss. The safe was open, and this man was climbing out of the window. I caught hold of him and yelled until a Sepoy outside came to help me.”

“Was anything missing from the safe?”

“The man had nothing on him, sahib.”

“So it was the stone that he was after?” concluded Gregg in some satisfaction. “Quite an evenings entertainment that you’ve provided, Your Excellency.”

The captive burst into a torrent of words, with Jayram nodding from time to time as he tried to follow.

“The man says that the Eye of Shiva was stolen and should be returned to the temple of Vira-bhadra. He is no thief but the right hand of his god seeking the return of his property.”

The Resident sniffed. “That’s as may be! To me he is a thief, who will be handed over to the Baroda authorities and punished. As Gregg said, it was lucky we were examining the stone while he was trying to open the safe.”

Major Foran had been inspecting the stone, which he had taken from Gregg, and he now turned to the prisoner. “Would you like to examine the prize that you missed?” he jeered.

They were unprepared for what happened next. Both the Sepoy and Devi Bhadra were momentarily distracted by the bright, shining object that Foran held out. Not so their prisoner. In the excitement of the moment, they had slackened their grip to the extent that the muscular young man seized his chance. With a great wrench, he had shaken free of his captors, grabbed the stone from the hand of the astonished major, and bounded across the room as agilely as a mountain lion. Before anyone could recover from their surprise, he had flung himself against the shuttered windows.

The wood splintered open as the man crashed through onto the veranda outside.

The dinner company was momentarily immobile in surprise at the unexpected abruptness of the man’s action.

A second passed. On the verandah outside, the Betulese jumped to his feet and began to run into the evening blackness and the driving rain.

It was the ADC, Lieutenant Tompkins, who first recovered from his surprise. He turned and seized the Sepoy’s Lee Enfield rifle. Then he raised it to his shoulder. There was a crack of an explosion which brought the company to life.

Foran was through the door onto the veranda in a minute. Lord Chetwynd Miller was only a split second behind, but he slipped and collided with Sir Rupert, who was just getting to his feet. The impact was so hard that Sir Rupert was knocked to the floor. The Resident went down on his knees beside him. Father Cassian was the first to spring from his chair, with an expression of concern, to help them up. The Resident was holding on to Cassians arm when he slipped again and, with a muttered expression of apology, climbed unsteadily to his feet. By then it was all over.

The young man in the dhoti was lying sprawled facedown. There was a red, telltale stain on his white dirty robe that not even the torrent of rain was dispersing. Foran had reached his side and bent down, feeling for a pulse and then, with a sigh, he stood up and shook his head.

He came back into the dining room, his dress uniform soaked by the monsoon skies. As he did so, the dining room door burst open, and Lady Chetwynd Miller stood on the threshold again, the other ladies of her party crowding behind her.

The Resident turned and hurried to the door, using his body to prevent the ladies spilling into the room.

“My dear, take your guests back into the drawing room. Immediately!” he snapped, as his wife began to open her mouth in protest. “Please!” His unusually harsh voice caused her to blink and stare at him in astonishment. He forced a smile and modulated his tone. “Please,” he said again. “We won’t be long. Don’t worry, none of us have come to any harm.” He closed the door behind them and turned back, his face ashen.

“Well,” drawled Foran, holding his hand palm outward and letting the others see the bright glistening red stone that nestled there, “the young beggar nearly got away with it.”

The Resident smiled grimly and turned to his majordomo.

“Devi Bhadra, you and the Sepoy remove the body. I expect Inspector Jayram will want to take charge now. Is that all right with you, Foran?”

Major Foran, nominally in charge of the security of the Residency, indicated his agreement, and Devi Bhadra motioned the Sepoy to follow him in the execution of their unpleasant task.

Lord Chetwynd Miller turned to his ADC and clapped him on the shoulder. The young man had laid aside the Lee Enfield and was now sitting on his chair, his face white, his hand shaking.

“Good shooting, Tompkins. Never saw better.”

Foran was pouring the young officer a stiff brandy. “Get that down you, lad,” he ordered gruffly.

The young lieutenant stared up. “Sorry,” he muttered. “Never shot anyone before. Sorry.” He took a large gulp of his brandy and coughed.

“Did the right thing,” confirmed the Resident. “Otherwise the beggar would have got clean away-” He turned to Jayram and then frowned.

Inspector Jayram was gazing in fascination at the stone that Foran had set back in its box. He took it up with a frown passing over his brow. “Excuse me, Excellency,” he muttered.

They watched him astounded as he reached for a knife on the table and, placing the stone on the top of the table, he drew the knife across it. It left a tiny white mark.

White-faced, Major Foran was the first to realize the meaning of the mark. “A fake stone! It is not the Eye of Shiva!”

Jayram nodded calmly. He was watching their faces carefully.

Sir Rupert was saying, “Was the stone genuine in the first place? I mean, did Savaji Rao give you the genuine article?”

“We have no reason to doubt it,” Major Foran replied, but his tone was aghast.

Royston, who had taken the stone from where Jayram had left it on the table, was peering at it in disbelief. “The stone was genuine when we started to examine it,” he said quietly.

The Resident was frowning at him.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean…” Royston stared around thoughtfully. “I mean that this is not the stone that I held in my hand a few minutes ago.”

“How can you be so sure?” demanded Gregg. “It looks exactly the same to me.”

Royston held up the defaced stone to the light. “See here… there is a shadow in this stone, a tiny black mark that indicates its flaw. The stone I held a few moments ago did not have such a mark. That I can swear to.”

“Then where is the real stone?” demanded Father Cassian. “This stone is a clever imitation. It is worthless.”

Major Foran was on his feet, taking the stone and peering at it with a red, almost apoplectic stare. “An imitation, by George!”

The Resident was stunned.

“I bet that Hindu chappie had this fake to leave behind when he robbed the safe. The real one must still be on his body,” Lieutenant Tompkins gasped.

“On his body or in the garden,” grunted Foran. “By your leave, sir, I’ll go and get Devi Bhadra to make a search.”

“Yes, do that, Bill,” instructed the Resident quietly. He was obviously shocked. Foran disappeared to give the orders.

There was a moments silence, and then Jayram spoke. “Begging your pardon, Excellency, you will not find the stone on the body of the dead priest.”

Lord Chetwynd Miller’s eyes widened as they sought the placid dark brown eyes of Jayram. “I don’t understand,” he said slowly.

Jayram smiled patiently. “The Betul priest did not steal the real ruby, Your Excellency. Only the fake. In fact, the real ruby has not left this room.”

“You’d better explain that,” Father Cassian suggested. “The ruby has been stolen. According to Lord Miller, the genuine stone was given into his custody. And according to Royston there, he was holding the genuine stone just before we heard Devi Bhadra capture that beggar. Then the Hindu priest was brought here into this room. He grabbed the stone from Foran, and the real stone disappears. Only he could have had both fake and real stone.”

Foran had come back through the shattered window of the dining room. Beyond they could see Devi Bhadra conducting a search of the lawn where the man had fallen.

“There is nothing on the dead man,” Foran said in annoyance. “Devi Bhadra is examining the lawn now.”

“According to Inspector Jayram here,” interposed Gregg heavily, “it’ll be a waste of time.”

Foran raised an eyebrow.

“Jayram thinks the ruby never left this room,” explained Father Cassian. “I think he believes the Hindu priest grabbed the fake when he tried to escape.”

Jayram nodded smilingly. “That is absolutely so,” he confirmed.

The Resident’s face was pinched. “How did you know?” he demanded.

“Simple common sense, Excellency,” replied the Bengali policeman. “We have the stone here, the genuine stone. Then we hear the noise of the Betulese being captured as he makes an abortive attempt to steal the stone from your study-abortive because the stone is here with us. He is brought to this room, and there he stands with his arms held between Devi Bhadra and the Sepoy. He makes a grab at what he thinks is the ruby and attempts to escape. He believes the stone genuine.”

“Sounds reasonable enough,” drawled Sir Rupert. “Except that you have no evidence that he was not carrying the fake stone on him to swap.”

“But I do. Devi Bhadra searched the culprit thoroughly. He told us; he told us twice that he had done so and found nothing on the man. If the fake stone had been on the person of the priest of Vira-bhadra, then His Excellency’s majordomo would have found it before he brought the priest here, into the dining room.”

“What are you saying, Jayram? That old man Shiva worked some magic to get his sacred eye back?” grunted Gregg, cynically.

Jayram smiled thinly. “No magic, Mr. Gregg.”

“Then what?”

“The logic is simple. We eight are sat at the table. The genuine stone is brought in. We begin to examine it. We are interrupted in our examination by the affair of the priest of Vira-bhadra. Then we find it is a faked stone. The answer is that someone seated at this table is the thief.”

There was a sudden uproar.

Sir Rupert was on his feet, bawling. “I am not going to be insulted by a… a…”

Jayram’s face was bland. “By a simple Bengali police inspector?” he supplied helpfully. “As a matter of fact, I was not being insulting to you, Sir Rupert. My purpose is to recover the stone.”

Lord Chetwynd Miller slumped back into his chair. He stared at Ram Jayram. “How do you propose that?”

Jayram spread his hands and smiled. “Since none of our party have left the room, with the exception of Major Foran,” he bowed swiftly in the soldiers direction, “and he, I believe, is beyond reproach, the answer must be that the stone will still be on the person of the thief. Is this not logical, Your Excellency?”

Lord Chetwynd Miller thought a moment and then nodded, as though reluctant to concede the point.

“Good. Major Foran, will you have one of your Sepoys placed on the veranda and one at the door? No one is to leave now,” Jayram asked.

Foran raised a cynical eyebrow. “Are you sure that I’m not a suspect?”

“We are all suspects,” replied Jayram imperturbably. “But some more so than others.”

Foran went to the door and called for his men, giving orders to station themselves as Jayram had instructed.

“Right.” Jayram smiled. “We will now make a search, I think.”

“Then we’ll start with you,” snapped Sir Rupert. “Of all the impertinent-”

Jayram held up a hand, and the baronet fell silent. “I have no objection to Major Foran searching my person.” He smiled. “But, as a matter of fact, Sir Rupert, I was thinking of saving time by starting with you. You see, when there was the disturbance of the Betulese being brought in here, at that time you were the one holding the stone.”

Royston whistled softly. “That’s right, by Jove! I held the genuine stone. Then I passed it on to Father Cassian and…”

The priest looked uncomfortable. “I passed it on to Sir Rupert just as the commotion occurred.”

Sir Ruperts face was working in rage. “I’ll not stand for this!” he shouted. “A jumped-up punkah-wallah is not going to make me-”

Major Foran moved across to him with an angry look. “Then I’ll make you, if you object to obeying the inspector’s orders, Sir Rupert,” he said quietly.

Sir Rupert stared at them and then with a gesture of resignation began to empty his pockets.

Jayram, still smiling, raised his hand. “A moment, Sir Rupert. There may not be any need for this.”

Inspector Foran hesitated and stared in surprise at the Bengali.

“I thought…,” he began.

“The commotion started. Our attention was distracted. When our attention focused back on the jewel, who was holding it?”

They looked at one another.

Gregg stirred uncomfortably. “I guess I was,” he confessed.

Foran nodded agreement. “I took the stone from him, and that’s when we discovered it was a fake.”

Gregg rose to his feet, and they all examined him with suspicion. “You won’t find anything on me,” Gregg said with a faint smile. “Go ahead.”

Jayram returned his smile broadly.

“I am sure we won’t. You, Mr. Gregg, did not take the stone from the hands of Sir Rupert, did you?”

Gregg shook his head and sat down abruptly.

“No. I took it from the box where Sir Rupert had replaced it. He put it back there when the Hindu priest was being questioned.”

“Just so. The stone was genuine as it passed round the table until it reached Sir Rupert, who then replaced it in the box. Then Mr. Gregg took the stone from the box and passed it round to the rest of us. It was then a fake one.”

Sir Rupert was clenching and unclenching his hands spasmodically. Major Foran moved close to him.

“This is a damned outrage, I tell you,” he growled. “I put the stone back where I found it.”

“Exactly,” Jayram said with emphasis. “Where you found it.”

They realized that he must have said something clever, or made some point that was obscure to them.

“If I may make a suggestion, Major,” Jayram said quietly. “Have your Sepoys take Father Cassian into the study and hold him until I come. We will remain here.”

The blood drained from Father Cassian’s face as he stared at the little Bengali inspector. His mouth opened and closed like a fish for a few seconds. Everyone was staring at him with astonishment. If nothing else, Cassian’s expression betrayed his guilt.

“That’s a curious request,” observed Foran, recovering quickly. “Are you sure that Father Cassian is the thief?”

“Will you indulge me? At the moment, let us say that Father Cassian is not all that he represents himself to be. Furthermore, at the precise moment of the disturbance, Cassian was holding the stone. Sir Rupert had asked him for it. Our attention was momentarily distracted by Lady Miller at the door. When I looked back, the stone had been replaced in its holder. Sir Rupert, seeing this, took up the stone, examined it, and replaced it. The only time it could have been switched was when Cassian held it, before he replaced it in the casket.”

Cassian half rose, and then he slumped down. He smiled in resignation. “If I knew the Bengali for ‘it’s a fair cop,’ I’d say it. How did you get on to me, Jayram?”

Jayram sighed. “I suspected that you were not a Catholic priest. I then made a pointed reference to Pelagius to test you. Any Catholic priest would know that Pelagius is not a saint and martyr of the fourth century. He was a philosopher who argued vehemently with Augustine of Hippo and was excommunicated from the Roman church as a heretic. You did not know this.”

Cassian shrugged. “I suppose we can’t know everything,” he grunted. “As I say, it’s a fair…” He had reached a hand into his cassock. Then a surprised look came over his features. He rummaged in his pocket and then stared at Jayram. “But…,” he began.

Jayram jerked his head to Foran. Foran gave the necessary orders. After the erstwhile “Father” Cassian had been removed, against a background of stunned silence, Foran turned back to Jayram.

“Perhaps you would explain why you have had Cassian removed to be searched. The search could easily have been done here.”

“The reason,” Jayram said imperturbably, “is that we will not find the stone on him.”

There was a chorus of surprise and protest.

“You mean, you know he is innocent?” gasped Foran.

“Oh no. I know he is guilty. When our attention was distracted by the entrance of the captive, Father Cassian swapped the genuine stone and placed the fake on the table for Sir Rupert to pick up later. It was the perfect opportunity to switch the genuine stone for the faked stone. Cassian is doubtless a professional jewel thief who came to Baroda when he heard that Savaji Rao was going to present the Eye of Shiva to the Resident for transportation to England.”

“You mean, Cassian was already prepared with an imitation ruby?” demanded Royston.

“Just so. I doubt whether Cassian is his real name. But we will see.”

“But if he doesn’t have the stone, what can we charge him with, and moreover, who the hell has the genuine stone?” demanded Foran.

“Father Cassian can be charged with many things,” Jayram assured him. “Traveling on a fake passport, defrauding… I am sure we will find many items to keep Father Cassian busy.”

“But if he doesn’t have the genuine Eye of Shiva, who the devil has it?” repeated Lieutenant Tompkins.

Jayram gave a tired smile. “Would you mind placing the genuine ruby on the table, Your Excellency?”

There was a gasp as he swung round to Lord Chetwynd Miller.

Lord Chetwynd Miller’s face was sunken and pale. He stared up at Jayram like a cornered animal, eyes wide and unblinking.

Everyone in the room had become immobile, frozen into a curious theatrical tableau.

The Resident tried to speak, and then it seemed his features began to dissolve. He suddenly looked old and frail. To everyone’s horror, except for the placid Jayram, he reached into the pocket of his dinner jacket and took out the rich red stone and silently placed it on the table before him.

“How did you know?” he asked woodenly.

Ram Jayram shrugged eloquently. “I think your action was one made on-how do you say-’the spur of the moment’? The opportunity came when our prisoner tried to escape. You instinctively ran after him. You collided with Sir Rupert, and both went down. Cassian went to your aid. He had his role as a priest to keep up. There was-how do you call it? — a melee? The jewel accidentally fell from Cassian’s pocket unnoticed by him onto the floor. You saw it. You realized what had happened and staged a second fall across it, secreting it into your pocket. You were quick-witted. You have a reputation for quick reactions, Excellency. It was an excellent maneuver.”

Foran was staring at the Resident in disbelief. Tompkins, the ADC, was simply pale with shock.

“But why?” Foran stammered after a moment or two.

Lord Chetwynd Miller stared up at them with haunted eyes. “Why?” The Resident repeated with a sharp bark of laughter.

“I have given my life to the British Government of India. A whole life’s work. Back home my estates are heavily mortgaged and I have not been able to save a penny during all my years of service here. I was honest; too scrupulously honest. I refused to take part in any business deal which I thought unethical; any deal from which my position prohibited me. What’s the result of years of honest dedication? A small pension that will barely sustain my wife and myself, let alone pay the mortgage of our estate. That together with a letter from the viceroy commending my work and perhaps a few honors, baubles from Her Majesty that are so much worthless scrap metal. That is my reward for a lifetime of service.”

Major Foran glanced at the imperturbable face of Jayram and bit his lip.

“So, you thought you saw a way of subsidizing your pension?” Jayram asked the Resident.

“I could have paid off my debts with it,” confirmed the Resident. “It would have given us some security when we retired.”

“But it was not yours,” Sir Rupert Harvey observed in a shocked voice.

“Whom did it belong to?” demanded the Resident, a tinge of anger in his voice. “Was it Savaji Rao’s to give? Was it the Queen-Empress’s to receive? Since Colonel Vickers stole it from the statue of Shiva in Betul, it has simply been the property of thieves and only the property of the thief who could hold on to it.”

“It was the property of our Queen-Empress,” Lieutenant Tompkins said sternly. He was youthful, a simple young soldier who saw all things in black-and-white terms.

“She would have glanced at it and then let it be buried in the royal vaults forever. No one would have known whether it was genuine or fake-they would merely have seen a pretty red stone. To me, it was life; comfort and a just reward for all I had done for her miserable Empire!”

Lord Chetwynd Miller suddenly spread his arms helplessly, and a sob racked his frail body. It was the first time that those gathered around the table realized that the Resident was merely a tired old man.

“I have to tell my wife. Oh God, the shame will kill her.”

They looked at his heaving shoulders with embarrassment.

“I don’t know what to do,” muttered Foran.

“A suggestion,” interrupted Ram Jayram.

“What?”

“The stone was missing for a matter of a few minutes. It was not really stolen. What happened was a sudden impulse, an overpowering temptation which few men in the circumstances in which His Excellency found himself could have resisted. He saw the opportunity and took it.”

Foran snorted. “You sound like an advocate, Jayram,” he said. “What are you saying?”

Jayram smiled softly. “A policeman has to be many things, Major. Let us look at it this way-the stone was placed in the safekeeping of the Resident by Savaji Rao. It is his responsibility until it is placed on the ship bound for England. Perhaps the Resident merely placed it in his pocket as a precaution when the thief was brought in. I suggest that you, Major Foran, now take charge of the genuine stone, on behalf of the Resident, and see that it goes safely aboard the SS Caledonia tomorrow. Lord Chetwynd Miller has only a few months before his retirement to England, so he will hardly be left in his position of trust much longer. He is a man who has already destroyed his honor in his own eyes-why make his dishonor public when it will gain nothing?”

Foran nodded agreement. “And Cassian must never be informed of how the stone was removed from him.”

“Just so,” Jayram agreed.

Sir Rupert Harvey rose with a thin-lipped look of begrudging approval at the Bengali. “An excellent solution. That is a Christian solution. Forgiveness, eh?”

Ram Jayram grinned crookedly at the baronet. “A Hindu solution,” he corrected mildly. “We would agree that sometimes justice is a stronger mistress than merely the law.”