The Far Pavilions - Mary Margaret Kaye [395]
So that was it: the Diwan was making certain that the only news leaving Bhithor would be such as he and his fellow-councillors approved, and that it would be carried by his own men and no one else. Ash wondered if Manilal would be denied entry, and if so, how he, Ash, was going to contact Gobind. But this was a minor worry compared with the fact that there was as yet no sign of any detachment of police or soldiery from British India, or the least indication that the Government intended to interest itself in the affairs of Bhithor.
Past experience had led Ash to talk slightingly of the Political Agencies' ‘see-no-evil, hear-no-evil’ attitude towards the independent states of Rajputana, and their kid-glove handling of the princes. But knowing that the great majority of Political Officers did invaluable work and were not as he had chosen to describe them, he had never really believed that in the present instance those concerned would not act with speed and firmness once they were aware of what was in the wind. And as both he and Mr Pettigrew of the police had taken steps to see that they should be made aware of it, he had arrived in Bhithor expecting to find a strong detachment of troops or police quartered in the city; or at the very least, that Spiller, the Political Officer, was occupying one of the royal guest-houses in the Ram Bagh.
The last thing he had expected to find was that no officer representing the authority of the Raj had arrived in Bhithor – or, as far as he could discover, intended to arrive. And now that the ‘gates of the state’ had been closed and he and Sarji, like Gobind, were shut off from the outside world, it was going to be very difficult, if not impossible, to get any word out to the British authorities – except by means of Bukta's road, which would be a slow and circuitous route to Ajmer, and might well take too long to be of any use. Because the hot season was already here, and should the Rana die he would be cremated within a matter of hours – and Juli and Shushila with him.
‘I don't understand it,’ said Ash, pacing to and fro in the room above the shop like a caged wolf. ‘One telegram might have gone astray, but surely not all four -! It's not possible. Kaka-ji or Jhoti are bound to have done something. They at least know what these people here are capable of – and so does Mulraj. They must have warned Simla. In fact they probably wired the Viceroy direct, and the A.G.G. Rajputana, too. Yet no one seems to have moved a finger. I can't understand it. I cannot!’
‘Be calm, my friend,’ urged Sarji. ‘Who knows but that the Sirkar has already posted agents here in disguise?’
‘What good would that do?’ demanded Ash angrily. ‘What do you suppose two or three spies – or six or a dozen – could do against all Bhithor? What is needed here is some senior Sahib from the Political Department or the police, with at least two companies of troops, or a strong detachment of police – Sikhs for choice. But there is no sign that the Government of India means to move in the matter, and now that the frontier has been closed, its spies – if any were sent here, which I doubt – cannot get out. And you and I can do nothing. Nothing!’
‘Except pray that the gods, and your friend the Hakim, will prolong the life of the Rana until such time as the Burra-Sahibs in Simla and Ajmer choose to bestir themselves and make inquiries as to what goes on in Bhithor,’ observed Sarji unhelpfully.
He removed himself, leaving Ash to his pacing, and went down to see to the horses; and that done, sauntered through the bazaars again in search of news and in the hope of seeing a fat, foolish-seeming face among the drifting crowds. But there was still no sign of Manilal, and Sarji returned to the little room above the charcoal-vendor's