The room is cheerful. Full of light and packed with well-tended plants. Some of the names I forget since I’m not an expert on these varieties, but I recognize a few of her favorites: the lost lady’s slipper with an unusual yellow flower that resembles a butterfly, and clusters of blue vanda, which strike me as more purple than blue. I remember this nursery to be Maharani Indira’s shelter, the place where she loves and nurtures freely. It smells of life and rich soil and damp and heat.
I’ve almost finished my cool mango drink when one of her attendants wheels the dowager maharani into the hothouse and stops in the center of the room where there is a metal settee. Her Highness is holding her hands aloft, careful not to smear the henna paste. I sit on the settee and test the henna paste; it’s mostly dry. I warm my hands with geranium oil from my carrier before I rub her hands, until the dried paste has completely flaked off onto the towel I placed on my lap.
She praises the finished design, admiring the renewed silkiness of her skin.
With the barest turn of her wrist, the Maharani Indira instructs the attendant to leave us alone. He exits and stands just outside the closed hothouse door as he awaits her next command.
She curls her index finger, now bright red with henna, and flicks it behind her. I suppose this is my signal to wheel her around. I station myself behind her chair and we begin moving. She inspects a few plants, exclaiming satisfaction or disapproval at the state of their health.
“Now, what’s this I hear about the Royal Jewel Cinema, hmm?”
I’ve been wondering how to bring up the subject, so I’m a little taken aback by her forthrightness.
“Some sort of shenanigans about building materials and whatnot?” She’s making it sound as if she’s only slightly familiar with the cinema fiasco, but I get the feeling that she’s well-informed.
“Your Highness, I’m sure you’ll recall Mr. Agarwal, the palace’s director of facilities. He is being accused of having authorized poor quality construction materials that may have caused the accident at the cinema house.”
“But you think otherwise, I take it?”
“The Maharani Latika has talked to you?”
“We keep a joint counsel.”
We come to the end of one row of plants. There is a low cabinet in front of us.
“Open that cabinet if you would,” she says.
I do. It’s an icebox. Inside is a covered glass pitcher of clear liquid and two glasses.
“Pour us each a glass, my dear.”
Now I remember. The gin and tonic the maharani is so fond of—and which she firmly believes is the secret to orchid health. After I hand her a glass, she toasts mine. “To everlasting health.” She laughs at her own joke and takes a sip. “Aah. So cool and crisp. Let’s keep moving, shall we?”
I wheel her down another row.
“I believe the reason for the cheap materials has nothing to do with Mr. Agarwal,” I say.
“I understand Manu Agarwal lives beyond his means,” she says. “The palace does not pay him enough for that expensive sedan and the silks his wife wears.”
I try not to show my surprise at how much she knows. “His wife comes from money, Your Highness. Kanta Agarwal is related to the writer-poet Rabindranath Tagore. She’s originally from Calcutta.”
“Ah. Well, that does explain things.” She dribbles a little of her drink on the base of a droopy orchid. She looks at my glass, which I’ve barely touched. “Drink up, my dear.”
I take a sip. It’s refreshing. Lighter and sweeter than the Laphroaig that Jay and I drink in the evenings.
Her smile is ironic. “You never used to touch the stuff.”
“Times change, Your Highness. My husband favors scotch and I find I like the smoky flavor.”
“Next time we’ll be sure to accommodate you.”
She’s speaking as if she’ll live forever, and what good would it do to refuse her? I smile back.
“Your Highness, Mr. Agarwal’s integrity has never been in question.”
“So let’s hear your theory.”
I hesitate, look into my glass. “You won’t like it.”
I’ve irritated her. “Do not presume to know what I think, my dear.”
“Gold is being concealed within building materials and couriered to construction sites here in Jaipur, specifically in bricks designed for that purpose. The gold is then sold to jewelers and the bricks are used in construction. Only problem is that those bricks aren’t strong enough for load impact—forgive me for the technical explanation. Malik has been teaching me a lot of engineering terms over the last few days.”
At the mention of Malik’s name, the Maharani Indira breaks into a smile. “Malik is an engineer now?”
“He’s recently graduated from private school in Shimla and is here in Jaipur spending some time learning from Mr. Agarwal and the palace facilities engineers. At my request.”
“Yes, it’s hard to turn you down, Lakshmi. I’ve noticed that.” She arches an eyebrow at me. “Go on.”
“Those bricks are substandard. They don’t meet current building codes. Couple that with inexperienced laborers mixing the cement mortar that covers the bricks, and you have the makings of a disaster.”
She holds up a hand to stop me moving her wheelchair. Then she crooks her index finger for me to come around and face her. I look around for another chair so I won’t be peering down at her. There’s a bamboo one at the end of the row. I bring it over and place it in front of her wheelchair.
Her Highness waves a gnarled hand as if she’s wiping a window. “In your scenario, who is doing what?”
I swallow. This will be tricky because Samir Singh is a favorite of hers. She adores him. “I think Samir Singh’s son Ravi has become involved in the couriering of gold from the Himalayas.”
As I anticipated, she appears shocked and distressed. “What on earth does Samir’s son have to gain from couriering gold? He already comes from one of the wealthiest families in Jaipur—and probably the whole of Rajasthan.”
“I’ve been asking myself the same question, Your Highness. But the evidence clearly points to Singh-Sharma. I can’t imagine Samir would risk his reputation and that of his company for money. All I can gather is that Ravi wants to strike out on his own. As you said, he comes from a wealthy family, but none of the wealth belongs to him, per se. Perhaps he wants something all his own. A separate income? Something only he has control over.”
I search her face to see if any of this has sunk in or if I’ve managed to alienate her. If I were her, I might think I’ve lost my hold on sanity to accuse such prominent members of society. The hothouse feels very warm now. I can feel a trickle of sweat running down my temple.