I sate in the sunshine of Delhi as it blazed down upon the trellised tombs of a dead dynasty. I was very tired; as police officers are apt to be when Crowned Heads travel in India. But my particular Monarch was away from my jurisdiction laying foundation stones elsewhere, so I had an off four-and-twenty hours. Not knowing Delhi as it should be known, I utilised my holiday for slow, solitary, silent sight-seeing, in the course of which I had driven out to the Kutb-minar, had bidden the carriage return to await me by Humayon's Tomb, so, with lunch in my pocket, had set out systematically to reconstruct old India out of the crowding ruins.

It is a fascinating occupation; but one provocative of dreams, and, as I rested, idly smoking, in the shade of a gnarled jhund tree, I was more than half asleep. Around me lay the graves of Kings who had once ruled in the flesh. I had been trying, as it were, to live their lives, to see with their eyes, and the conclusion had been forced in upon me that though the monarchy had changed (and my particular Crowned Head was certainly not to pattern of the Old Indian autocrat) the country and the people had altered but little.

For instance, the pageant through the city streets of a few days past, with the brazen sunlight setting silks and satins aflame with vivid colours, and painting every shadow dark with the purple gloom of night, was, as it were, of all time; the faces of the crowd through which it cleft its way, were in type, in character, permanent.

I closed my eyes to visualize how the dapper Viceroy would have looked had he been scattering golden pistachios, silver almonds and enamelled rose leaves amongst the lieges, instead of sitting his horse purposefully, like an ill-fitting statue and inwardly rehearsing the detail of up-to-date benefits he had to proclaim at the end of his ride? Were they, I wondered, more satisfactory than the older largesse?

When I opened my eyes, I saw a naked old man squatted forlornly among the latticed graves. He held a flat basket--a gardener's basket--between his knees; it contained only one compact posy of closely crushed flowers--the gul this and gul that--beloved of natives; but I saw that a similar bunch had been laid on several of the tombs.

The man, however, was palpably not a gardener. No one of Indian experience who on real hot-weather evenings had wandered round his back premises could have hesitated as to vocation. Either as chef or scullion, the figure belonged to the cook-room; there was that in its very nakedness (save for a tight-wound waist cloth), that in the very polish of the close-shaved head, which was quaintly reminiscent of full-starched raiment and high-piled turban.

Now, I always speak to a native when I get him alone--it is a useful habit for a police officer--so I said casually:

"On what tomb, friend, are you going to put that bunch?"

The old figure turned, profuse--of course!--in salaam; it showed a wrinkled toothless face, overlaid with the smiles and subtlety of centuries of service. But its reply was dazed, forlorn.

"This slave of the Court," it mumbled, "seeks for a tomb that was but is not. God send some miscreant hath not taken the marble slab thereof for his idolatrous curry-stone! Lo! I can find it nowhere, and the inscription thereof is lost--is lost!"

A world of angry apprehension crept into the tired blear old eyes; the tired old hand shook visibly.

"What inscription?" I asked idly.

"My inscription, Protector of the Poor!" came the tired old voice. "Yea! whatever this slave of the Court said, the writer Abd-un-Nubbi copied it."

I sate up more alert, vaguely reminiscent of something I had seen lately. "What was it about?" I queried; this time curiously.

"About the Heaven-Nestled Kings the slave of the Court served," came the reply, less wearily; and, as if some stored memory cylinder had been set going by keywords, the voice went on, gaining strength: "This old slave of the Court does not feel any shame in serving the Kings and the Nobles! This old slave of the Court, Mahmud, supplicates God that the name of the Heaven-Nestled Emperor Humayon and the Heaven-Nestled Emperor Akbar may be perpetuated for all time! Lo! may they have been given the robe of Paradise! This old slave of the Court honoured by the Earth-Cherished Emperor Jahangir was told, 'You have grown old. Serve in the tomb of the Heaven-Nestled One at Delhi.'

"Humbly says Mahmud, old slave of the Court! He has come nigh to ninety years, he has come nigh his end. He has passed his life in luxury and ease through the kindness of Kings. Oh! Mahmud! no desire is left unfulfilled. Of giving and taking, buying and selling, bargainings in the bazaar, all is done with now!

"Lo! in this seat of Delhi, the rulers and the landholders, the elders and the neighbours should entrust this tomb and shrine (of which the total amount of expenses, including all necessary articles and allowances was 290,000 tankas) to those who are my heirs and who deserve to possess it, as it was built with my honestly-earned money." The long-drawn-out quaintly ungrammatical Persian phrases ceased in a melancholy refrain: "But it has gone, Huzoor! Someone has taken away my tombstone."

I knew now what he was talking about; knew why that faint message of memory had come to me. I had seen this inscription, or something like it, in the Delhi Museum, on a square slab of white marble which the catalogue said had been found amongst some ruins not far from where we were sitting.

I looked at the old man; though he himself was well on in years, the impossibility of his words made me pass over major points to cavil at minor ones.

"My tombstone!" I echoed. "I suppose you mean this King's cook was a forbear of yours. You come of a servant family, I expect, ah! Prince of Personalities."

I gave him the full title of the highest domestic office with intent. It had a marvellous effect. His bowed back straightened itself; he seemed to sit resplendent in gold-laced coat and badge-wound turban. "The Huzoor speaks truth," he said, with perfectly blatant dignity. "Since the beginning of time my people have served Kings--and Sahibs."

The last was a palpable concession to the alien, and I could not help smiling. But the old man, despite his toothless, wrinkled, wagging head, was no subject for smiles. He sate there transfigured, his face shiny, an apotheosis of what folk nowadays call servility. You felt it in the warm scented sunshine; an atmosphere of dutiful devotion that brought a kindly interest to my heart.

"It hasn't been taken as a curry-stone," I said gravely: "it is quite safe. I saw it yesterday in the Wonder House." And then I remembered that my Crowned Head had paused over it to look and smile. "Yes! Prince of Personalities," I went on, "there it is. A marble slab with an inscription." So I went on to tell him what had occurred.

He sate and listened, gravely, reverently, and when I had finished he rose--I knew he would--and salaamed down to the ground.

"This poor Preparer-of-Plates is proud still to serve Majesty. May the Earth cherish the Wise King long! May Heaven nestle him when the time comes for soul to separate from body."

As I looked into the blazing sunshine at the old, naked, bald-headed figure, I swear it seemed to me clothed upon with all the liveries of all those centuries of service.

"Lo!" he went on, "let the tombstone remain in the Wonder House where it hath been honoured by the eye-glances of Kings. And as for the Noble Huzoor who hath relieved this poor slave of the Court's mind concerning curry-stones----" he paused, took up the remaining posy from his basket and held it out to me between deferential palms. "It is all I have, Huzoor, but it is sweet," he said simply, "and I have asked so many before, and none could tell me."

In sudden impulse I took it. "I'll tell you what I'll do, Prince of Personalities!" I said, half in jest, "I'll stop at the Wonder House on my way home and put it on the tombstone. Will that satisfy you?"

Once again he salaamed to the ground. "The gratitude of this old slave of the Court will go with the Huzoor all his days."

I left him salaaming still among the graves. As I drove back I regretted not having lingered to pick his brains concerning those centuries of his ancestors' service. Good stories must have been handed down as heirlooms; one curious as I was of the past might have heard much of interest.

But holiday was over. My Crowned Head had returned, making me responsible. In addition, fate was unkind. My major-domo, on whose care during those strenuous days when meals were oft-deferred. I was entirely dependent, fell sick and had to go to hospital. Not, however, before he had, in kindly Indian fashion, found me a substitute. Everyone who has been in India knows the type of professional cook-room substitute. They are to be seen sometimes in old dÂk bungalows, survivals still of the patronage of other days when such posts were the recognised superannuation pensions for civilians' servants. And this substitute of mine--I call them scapegoats as a rule, since all the subsequent sins of omission or commission in the back purlieus are invariably laid to their charge--differed in no way from the type. He was rather more aggressive in starch than most. He had the biggest of white turbans, and the forward bow of his arched back was a little more accentuated than usual by folds on folds of white bandaging until he looked as if he were wearing an extra sized, new whited motor tyre round his waist. But his scanty beard was purple black, and his eyes were brightened to youth with beautiful rims of antimony. Altogether he looked his part to perfection; and for a wonder, performed it also.

My table servant admitted at once that he was a "master artificer," and I, personally, confessed that never had I had such appetising dinners. Most of these substitutes have old-world dishes at their fingers' ends; dishes with strange names which philology can trace back to French and Portuguese origin, but this old man might have come from a Parisian restaurant.

"This slave belongs to a family of cooks," he said calmly, when I questioned him as to where he had learnt to make "Petits Timbales de foie gras À la Belle EugÉnie." "Therefore the wisdom of all the ages is at his disposal. When a slave's mind is set on serving his master, nothing is impossible."

And nothing seemed to be. My Inspector-General was a gourmet. He breakfasted with me in camp one morning, and after that it is surprising how often his meal times tallied with mine. So, in the course of a few days, the fame of my cook became noised abroad; especially when the Crowned Head started on a shooting tour and had to leave his French chef behind him; the latter not feeling equal to camp fires.

Then the Substitute came to the fore, and once or twice when I had the honour of dining at the Royal table, I noticed dishes which I could have sworn my man had prepared. Knowing the curious bond of brotherhood which exists in India between one cook-room and another, I knew this was quite possible.

We had some hard marching, and at the end of a week, I noticed that my substitute was palpably older. The surma had worn off his eyes; there was a fringe of grey beard above the purple black; yet still he looked magnificently starched as he stood behind my chair on the frequent occasions when the suite messed with royalty. Then we arrived at a Hill Rajah-ship where there had been some trouble during a long minority between Palace-Women and a Council of Regency; neither being oversatisfied with the Resident. But our Royal visit was to inaugurate a new regime under a new young Rajah, and great were to be the rejoicings; amongst other things a State Dinner in the Palace.

We were a bit late coming in from a shoot after black partridge, and I had a good many preparations to make, as I was in police charge, so that it was almost dark ere I returned to my tent to dress for dinner. To my surprise I found the Substitute immaculate one inside. He was immaculate as ever, but he looked old and frail and worn. Still it needed one of those sudden enlargements of personality, which are so puzzling, to make the shadows of the tent bring what the light of day had denied to me--recognition of the old man I had met amongst the latticed Tombs of Kings--the man who had lost his tombstone.

"You old scoundrel," I said. "Why didn't you tell me before who you were."

He salaamed a trifle furtively as he replied, "It is nothing to the master who his servant is, so that the servant be faithful, and I am that. My gratitude is bound to the Huzoor for ever and ever. So I came to ask what Tasters have been appointed for the Earth-Cherished-One this evening."

"Tasters?" I echoed. "What the deuce do you mean? Tasters!" Then it flashed upon me that he was alluding to the old "Tasters for Poison"; and I looked at him curiously. In the semi-darkness he seemed to have shrunken, to be inconceivably old and frail, so I went on more kindly. "There's no need for them nowadays, old man. They belong to the past. The King--God bless him!--is safe from that sort of thing. Thank Heaven."

I was throwing off my shooting togs vigorously, and the answer came out of the corner of the tent, as it were, vaguely.

"So said Firdoos MakÂni, the Sainted Babar in Paradise, yet he had to live a full month on lily leaves, and the Heaven-Nestled One the Emperor Humayon was also--"

"Look here! old chap!" I said, divided between haste and the desire to tap these old stories. "You shall tell me all that to-morrow. At present I must be off to the Palace to see all is right." Then I laughed. "Other days other manners. Ah! descendant of Mahmud the King's Cook! we have to look after bombs, not poisons, nowadays."

The answer came faintly to me, "The wickedness of men's hearts is ever the same, Huzoor!"

I do not think I ever saw a prettier entertainment. The long-eyed lazy-looking young Rajah must have had the blood of past sybarites in his veins, for he had enhanced Oriental splendour with Western refinement to perfection.

Having seen by a glance that all my detectives were in their places, knowing also the infinite precautions which had been secretly taken on all sides, and feeling fairly secure of the young ruler's personal loyalty, I felt I might enjoy myself, and I did. The champagne was iced to perfection, the illuminations glimmered softly away into the gloom of the lake, a band of native musicians, beautifully trained, discoursed plaintive love songs on native instruments deftly entuned to almost Western modulations, the dinner was super-excellent, a combination of Eastern and Western delicacies, and there was not one single hitch in the arrangements, except for a slight contretemps, due, apparently, to short-sightedness on the part of my venerable Scapegoat. He collided with the State servant who was handing a special tray of curried koftahs to the Crowned Head, with the result that the Crowned Head did not even get a taste of it. But the accident only raised a moment's laugh. The debris was cleared away in a twinkling, and I caught sight of the offender's scared protesting face as he was hustled away from further mischief.

After dinner we had a really excellent pantomime in dumb show by native actors, so it was past midnight ere I returned to my tent. I found my Chief Inspector, a man I could really trust, a man whose wide experience was of infinite use to me, standing outside.

"A report, Huzoor!" he said briefly, and I passed into the office. He looked all round, carefully closed the screens, and then began in a low voice:

"Huzoor! When your Honour's servant upset the State servant and his dish, I was close by. There was a look on your Honour's servant's face I did not understand. They scrambled instantly for the koftahs--scrambled hastily--to pick them up. But I got one, Huzoor. I gave it to a dog; and Huzoor! the dog is dead!"

I could scarcely speak. "Dead! ye Gods!" Then I remembered that the dog would be needful evidence, and said at once, "Where is the body? Bring it here."

But, if there had been a conspiracy to poison, the conspirators had been too quick for us. The corpus delicti was not where it had been left. Neither was the Substitute to be found. The other servants reported that, overcome with shame at his unpardonable offence in depriving an Earth-Cherished-One of his victuals, he had retired into the wilderness. Whence he never returned.

My Inspector-General used to bewail the Petits Timbales de foie gras À la Belle EugÉnie. But I have never ceased to wonder. And every time I go to Delhi I go to the Wonder House and lay a posy on the tombstone of Mahmud, the old Slave of the Court.

The gratitude was to be for ever and ever; so there is time for more yet.

FOOTNOTES

Footnote 1: GanÊsh is the Indian God of Wisdom. He is always portrayed with the head of an elephant.

Footnote 2: Old woman.

Footnote 3: Pleasant smell.

Footnote 4: Hanooman.

Jas. Truscott & Son, Ltd., London, E.C.