The Far Pavilions - Mary Margaret Kaye [263]
There was a noticeable interval before he replied to the question, and becoming aware of this he essayed a smile and said: ‘The Sahib is pleased to jest. What need of witnesses? The trinket is mine, and surely the fact that I came here to search for it is proof enough, because had I myself not placed it for safe-keeping in an inner pocket of that coat, how could I have known it was there? – or what to look for? Besides, I doubt if even my servants would recognize it, as I have never worn it. It belonged to my father, who gave it to me as he lay dying, so it saddens me to see it, but I have carried it with me ever since in memory of him. I look upon it as a charm to remind me of a great and good man, and to keep me from harm.’
‘Very filial of you,’ commented Ash. ‘And very interesting too. I would have said that he was not nearly old enough to be your father, as there cannot have been more than five years between you, if that. But then perhaps he was a particularly precocious child.’
Biju Ram's smile became a little fixed, but his voice remained smooth and once again he spread out his hands in a deprecatory gesture: ‘You speak in riddles, Sahib, and I do not understand you. What can you know of my father?’
‘Nothing,’ said Ash. ‘But I used to know the man who owned that earring and always wore it. His name was Hira Lal.’
The sharp hiss of indrawn breath was harshly audible in the silence as Biju Ram stiffened and stood rigid, and once again his eyes were wide and revealing. But this time they reflected shock and disbelief, and the dawn of something that was half-way between rage and terror. He ran his tongue over his lips as though they had suddenly become dry, and when he spoke at last it was in a grating whisper that seemed forced from him against his will:
‘No,’ whispered Biju Ram. ‘No… it is not true. You could not… it is not possible…’ A shudder went through him, and he appeared to wrench himself awake from the grip of a nightmare. His voice shot up:
‘Some enemy has told you lies about me, Sahib. Do not believe them. There is no truth in this none. This man you speak of, this Mera no, Hira Lal, was it not? There must be many of that name in Karidkote. It is not an uncommon one, and it is possible that one of them has an earring somewhat similar to this one of mine. But is that any reason to accuse me of theft and falsehood? Sahib, you have been misled by someone who wishes to ruin me, and if you are a just man – and we know all Sahibs to be just – you will tell me the name of this perjurer so that I may confront him and make him admit that he lies. Who is it who accuses me?’ demanded Biju Ram in throbbing tones, ‘and of what am I accused? If you know his name, speak, Sahib. I demand justice!’
‘You will get it,’ promised Ash grimly. ‘His name is Ashok. He was once in the service of the late Yuveraj of Gulkote, and you of all people should remember him well.’
‘But – he is dead,’ breathed Biju Ram. ‘He could not… This is a trick. A clumsy plot. You have been deceived by an impostor. That boy died many years ago.’
‘Did the men you sent to hunt him down tell you so? If so, they lied. No doubt because they feared to return and admit that they had failed. No, Bichchhu-ji' – Biju Ram jerked like a startled horse at the old nickname – ‘your men lost him, and though his mother died, he lived; and now he has come back to accuse you of the murder of his friend Hira Lal, whose pearl you stole; and of the attempted