“Simon Ferrier, and I won’t tell you anything if you keep asking questions, Alan. How can I speak when you talk?”
“I am dumb, my dearest virago. Go on.”
“I’m not a virago, you horrid boy. Well then, George went to Madras as a clerk of the East India Company, and was lent to some rajah to drill his army. He learned soldiering from Lord Clive, although he wasn’t Lord Clive at the time. Simon went with George to some hill fort and palace and the two became quite friendly with the rajah. Then some enemy of the native prince they served stormed the palace or town or whatever it was, and killed the lot of them.”
“Even George and Simon?” asked Alan, noting the loose way in which she was telling the tale, and privately deciding to ask for the manuscript, so that he might read it himself.
“No, you silly. They were taken prisoners. But before the place was captured, the Begum—that’s the rajah’s wife—gave all her jewels to Mr. Inderwick, because he saved her life, and the life of her son. Simon hid them when he and his master were captured by the other king, or rajah, or———”
“Never mind; say captured by the enemy.”
“Oh, very well,” said Marie obediently, “when they were captured by the enemy. They were a long time in captivity, and George was forced to drill the native troops, while Simon was made to work as a jeweller.”
“Why as a jeweller?”
“Oh, it seems that he had been brought up in England as a watchmaker, and having mended some clock belonging to the enemy, he was set to work in a shop to make ornaments for the enemy’s wives. He learned how to make Indian ornaments and became very clever—at least he says so himself, but perhaps he was bragging.”
“I don’t think so, if the stories about the beauty of the peacock he made are to be believed,” said Fuller thoughtfully, and recalling certain stories related by old village women who had set eyes on the ornament in question before it had disappeared. “Go on, dear. This is interesting.”