Page 44 of The Art of Theft
“You are a dangerous woman, Miss Charlotte Holmes,” she said at last. “Even after our last meeting, knowing the theft you arranged from right underneath my nose, I still underestimated you.”
Miss Charlotte inclined her head. Mrs. Watson tried to speak and could not. Did this mean that Miss Charlotte was right? That the current maharaja had rebellion on his mind?
“Please sit down, Mrs. Watson,” said the maharani quietly. “I believe I shall ring for some coffee.”
Mrs. Watson did as she was told, still stunned. Coffee came quickly, via a dumbwaiter that dinged pleasantly as it shunted into place. Miss Charlotte rose, went to the small compartment, and brought back the tray.
The maharani poured and handed a cup to Miss Charlotte. “A cream puff with your coffee?”
“Alas,” said Miss Charlotte, “I already had breakfast. But thank you very much, Your Highness.”
“For you, Mrs. Watson?”
What Mrs. Watson needed was a stiff drink. She shook her head.
The maharani took a sip of her own coffee. “My son began to reign on his own three years ago. After the transition, I left for a pilgrimage tour. I had long wished to see our holy sites, but the more important reason was that I feared I might be tempted to interfere too much, if I were to remain at court.
“The maharaja had long been impatient to rule on his own. The court and I hesitated because of that very impatience. He had many ideas but we felt that his temperament was not even-keeled enough for the wise application of power.
“This, of course, led to many disagreements. I wouldn’t go so far as to say that we were estranged, but we were no longer close. If I stayed, I would find faults with his decisions and he, having at last wrested power from me, would refuse to listen.”
There was no trace of emotion in the maharani’s tone but Mrs. Watson’s heart ached. How frustrating it must have been, and how exhausting, to know that she must either give up being a mother, or fail her responsibilities to her realm.
“So I went away, to give him time to grow into kingship,” the maharani went on, in that same unaffected demeanor. “I also hoped that his wife, a sensible woman, would prove to be a steadying influence. I returned home after a year to find that he had changed. That he had become both moodier and yet, somehow, more timid.
“His wife told me in secret what happened, because she was frightened not to have the advice of any elders on something so potentially catastrophic. And that was when I learned that shortly after I left, he took up corresponding with someone who claimed to be writing on behalf of the Margrave of B----------. That first letter was followed by precisely ten dashes, never one less, never one more, so he surmised that the name of the title was eleven letters long.
“He’d been tutored in European history and immediately thought of Brandenburg. The title was abolished when the Holy Roman Empire ceased to exist, but because the mark itself had long been ruled by the House of Hohenzollern, the head of that royal household is still styled ‘Margrave of Brandenburg,’ among other things.”
The head of the House of Hohenzollern was the King of Prussia. And since the unification, also the emperor of Imperial Germany.
Mrs. Watson’s lips flapped a few times. “Your son thought he was writing to an intermediary ofKaiser Wilhelm?”
“Exactly. This so-called intermediary conveyed his master’s interest in freeing India from the yoke of British rule. The said masterwould offer not merely moral support, but arms and military expertise so that those goals not realized in the great rebellion of 1857 might once again see light of day.”
The maharani sighed. “Even if I believed the letter writer to be representing the kaiser, I would have wondered why he was contacting the very new maharaja of a minor kingdom. At the very least, I would have inquired whether others in our position have received similar offers. My son, of course, did not think of it. He dreamed of being as great as Akbar. Or Ashoka. Why shouldn’t an imperial adversary of Britain contact him and him alone with such delicate and dangerous proposals?”
Mrs. Watson grew only more incredulous. “And he conveyed those sentimentsin writing?”
“He did. The correspondence ceased as soon as that happened. My son realized at last that he had been bamboozled. It seemed to him that the confession had been drawn from him for the purpose of blackmail, so he wrote his extortionist one final time and explained that he didn’t have any money to spare. He had invested in significant public works, and every other rupee in the treasury was already budgeted for other things.”
“Then what?”
“Then nothing. For nearly two years nothing, and then a letter informing us about the Van Dyck at Château Vaudrieu.”
The room fell silent. Mrs. Watson looked down at her lap. She wanted very much to embrace the maharani and tell her that everything would be all right. But she could only hold her hands tightly together.
“I hope this is not an intrusive question, Your Highness,” said Miss Charlotte, after a while, “but why is the maharaja himself not in Europe, looking after this matter?”
“He is not well,” said the maharani. Her throat moved, at last betraying a sign of emotion. “His ailment might have nothing to do with fearing every hour of every day that the might of the BritishRaj would be brought to bear on himself and his kingdom. But I for one shall never forgive the blackmailer for ruining his health and stealing all his joy at coming into manhood.”
No one said anything for a long time.
The maharani took another sip of her coffee. “I will understand, of course, that you won’t wish to help someone whose desires run contrary to British interests.”
The last thing Mrs. Watson cared about now was British interests. There was very little chance of the young maharaja mounting any serious challenge to British rule in India, and every chance that he himself would be ground to dust under that vast machinery.
But Mrs. Watson wasn’t alone in this venture. The Misses Holmes and Mr. Marbleton probably wouldn’t mind, but what about Lord Ingram? He was, after all, an agent of the Crown and had risked his life for that very same.
