Doctor Who_ All-Consuming Fire - Andy Lane [74]
Watson was sitting squeezed into the little hip bath. He was naked and held a gun. He didn't seem to register my presence. Instead, he was staring fixedly across the room. I followed his gaze.
At first I thought two snakes were coiling furiously on the floor, over by the large wooden object that was euphemistically known as the 'thunderbox'.
Then I saw the blood, and realized that he had shot a cobra in half.
'Good shooting,' I said, noticing the rip in the muslin above his head through which the snake had dropped.
Watson, realizing that I was there, grabbed for a towel to hide his modesty.
'I'll see about getting that mongoose,' Mrs Warburton's voice sang out from the veranda.
A continuation of the reminiscences of John H. Watson, M.D.
We had taken a carriage up from the bungalow; Warburton, his wife, his secretary, Holmes, Bernice and myself.
The outside of the building reminded me of an enormous wedding cake: all tiers and pillars and white surfaces edged with rose. Two other men had arrived at the same time as us. Warburton introduced us: one was a redheaded missionary named O'Connor and the other, Lord John Roxton, was hunting big game up in the hills. A man in long golden robes and a white turban met us beneath a huge scalloped archway.
'I am Ghulam Haidar,' he said, bowing deeply to us. 'The Nizam bids you welcome.'
Turning, he led us into a vast cloistered area whose lofty ceiling was held up by row upon row of the most impressively carved marble pillars. It was as if we had entered a forest of marble. I half expected to see a deer peering around one of them, or a squirrel running up it.
We were escorted through cool corridors to a large room hung with embroidered material. A low table in the centre of the room was piled high with food of all descriptions. A man in his early twenties was sat on a large golden cushion. His robes were silken and flowed around him like a glossy waterfall when he moved. Jewels glinted in the fold of his turban, and a single emerald the size of an egg sat at its front.
'Mr Holmes, I'm so pleased to meet you at last,' he said with a broad smile.
Holmes, if he was surprised at the Nizam's urbanity, did not show it.
Bowing deeply, he said, 'I am honoured to meet your Highness. May I compliment you upon your excellent grasp of our clumsy tongue.'
Tir Ram laughed joyfully.
'I was at Eton and Cambridge, Mr Holmes. I even speak Hindi with an accent now.'
He shook our hands firmly, to the obvious displeasure of Ghulam Haidar.
Shortly we sat cross-legged for the meal. I shall not dwell overmuch upon it. Silent servants waited on us. The food was unusual but not unappealing, and the drink flowed freely. Most Indian rulers are either Hindu or Muslim, but the Nizam seemed to have few religious injunctions concerning what he could or could not eat. I sampled yellow, red, green and purple rices, along with various spiced meats which were served swimming in butter and garnished with sultanas and almonds. Coffee was served between every course. Lord Roxton proved an interesting conversationalist, and gave me some tips on hunting tigers that I hope I will never need to use. He was a strange man: small and wiry, with a thin moustache and a small goatee beard.
'An experienced man can tell from the blood marks where the animal is hit, young fellow my lad,' he said, leaning, forward and poking me in the chest for emphasis. 'If it's been hit in the lungs the blood will be dark red and frothy, if in the liver or near the heart it will be dark red, sort of port-wine colour, if you get my drift. If you're unlucky enough to bag it in the stomach the blood comes out pale and watery, and anywhere else it will be a fight red. Fancy a day's shootin' tomorrow?'
Bernice seemed to be locked into conversation with Warburton's secretary, Smithee. She occasionally cast glances in my direction which started off as entreaties to rescue her and ended up as threats of physical violence if I did not. Holmes, Warburton and Tir Ram carried on a spirited discussion