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For the Indian Imperial Crown I. 1. the abduction of a child. In one of London's first entertainment venues, an Indian magician called Timur, the King of Jugglers, had been producing for some time. His performances were magnificent; as a result, the theatre was packed every night and even the most expensive seats were hard to come by. Rich people therefore preferred to have the occasional performance in their homes — a costly but convenient way to admire the dexterous Indian close at hand. Timur was invited to Sir Frank Carter, an English baronet, this evening. He had agreed for one hour and asked for fifty pounds sterling (one thousand marks) for this short performance, which sum was immediately conveyed to him. In addition, Sir Carter made it a condition that the juggler would not bring the poisonous snakes with which he performed many tricks on stage, and Timur had promised him this. A small party was gathered at Sir Carter's house, mostly consisting of senior and junior officers and their family members. Sir Frank Carter himself was a captain in the English army, a very high rank for a man of only twenty-five. But he did not owe it to his title of nobility, but solely to his achievements in India. He was made an officer; his deeds had had lasting success. The beautiful face, tanned by a southern sun, showed deep scars, as did the high forehead overshadowed by black curls, but they did not disfigure him. The fiery, radiant eye, the slender, tall and yet powerful figure with the arched chest and narrow hips suited him perfectly, and a short, full beard covered the disfiguring scar where the Indian flaming sword had inflicted a terrible wound. Lady Emily Carter was outwardly the opposite of her husband; small, petite, with ash-blonde hair and gentle blue eyes that could also flash hotly. Although the mother of a two-month-old daughter, there was still a virginal charm about her. Emily was one of those women who seem to grow younger with each child. The conversation naturally revolved around the expected juggler. Such performances were nothing new to the officers; they had often had the opportunity to see them in India, but the ladies were literally trembling with curiosity. India is the land of miracles and magic, and its native jugglers seem to be endowed with supernatural powers. It was the first time that a real Indian juggler toured Europe; he performed for kings and princes. His feats would boggle the mind of the most enlightened. A servant entered, an old fellow with a weathered, furrowed face. You could see immediately that he was more comfortable in his uniform than in his servant's livery. It was Jeremy, the captain's constant orderly, faithful to his master until death. «The juggler is here,» he reported with a clumsy attempt at a bow. «Timur? I didn't even hear his car drive up!» the landlord replied. «He came on foot.» «That's strange. I've heard Timur lives very lavishly. Well, show him and his assistant in!» «He's alone.» «Then stay with him and be of service to him when he needs your services!» The chairs were moved expectantly. Now the man was to come, who demanded no less than fifty pounds for an hour's work and also expected gifts. The Indian entered with a deep bow. He was a small, lanky man, his beardless face full of wrinkles and folds, his deep-set, slitted eyes gazing cunningly. A wide robe of the finest yellow silk completely enveloped him from neck to foot; even his hands disappeared into the wide sleeves. The host rose to greet his guest. «I am pleased, Mister Timur, that you accepted my invitation!» «My name is Timur Dhar, not Timur!» replied the Indian. in a high, unpleasant falsetto voice, avoiding the host's gaze, but at the same time scanning those present with sharp glances. Carter paid no attention to this interjection. «Why didn't you use a car?» he continued. «Timur Dhar does not use a rented car!» was the reply. The master of the house felt this reproach; his forehead reddened a little. «I did not know, however, that you are accustomed to travelling only in private equipages. Forgive my forgetfulness, I will make up for my mistake later!» «You are mistaken; I don't need a car at all, I was going to say. May I start the show?» The juggler made it clear that he did not want to enter into any conversation, so he was not to be bothered any further. «A room has been provided for you to make your preparations!» said Carter. «Jeremy, show the gentleman into the room!» «Why? I don't need any preparations!» «But your apparatus?» «I don't.» «Nothing at all?» «Nothing but my hands!» The astonishment grew. Even the gentlemen were not a little surprised. They had never seen a juggler experiment completely without apparatus. «You don't want a special room?» The juggler looked around. The room he was in was not large, the floor covered with a thick carpet; on the walls were Indian mats, fans, hunting trophies and foreign weapons, and between them were consoles on which Indian and Chinese vases, boxes and knick-knacks were placed. During the day, the room was lit by skylights; now a traffic light with red panes spread a pleasant twilight. «May I give my performance here,» asked the juggler after a brief inspection, «and make use of the things hanging on the wall and set up all around?» «Certainly! Everything is at your disposal, even my servant!» «Thank you, I accept his help. Now I ask the gentlemen to sit in a wide semicircle around me.» He moved the chairs himself and proceeded very carefully. When he was finally satisfied, he stepped into the semicircle in such a way that he was at the same distance from each spectator, about three metres, so that the two outer ones were to his left and right. «I request that the red discs be removed from the traffic lights and that more light be provided in the room.» Jeremy fulfilled this wish. Now the traffic lights cast a glaring light; lights placed on cupboards and consoles intensified it. 2. the curse of the sister. We have to go back two years in our narrative. The victorious troops of the Anglo-Indian army had been embarked for home. After bloody battles they had put down the rebellious Indians, and all London, rich and poor, joined in the festive reception of the victors. All who wished to be counted among the company vied for the honour of entertaining the heroic officers, and one of the first to succeed was the retired General Battinson. In the glittering halls of his house the officers, all in civilian clothes, were assembled; invitations had also gone out to the most distinguished families of London; the light of the chandeliers illuminated dazzling white arms and shoulders and refracted in the most splendid jewels. It was not surprising that General Battinson, who only a short time before had been on the verge of bankruptcy, could give such a party. His beautiful daughter Isabel had married an Indian tea merchant named Sirbhanga a week ago, and he had willingly paid off his father-in-law's debts. Such marriages to Indians are common in England, though they are usually political or business marriages. It was an open secret that the General would not have taken an Indian as his son-in-law if he had not needed money. The young couple formed the centre of the party. What a strange contrast they both presented! Isabel was a tall, proud, Junonian beauty whose hair rivalled her glowing eyes in blackness, while Sirbhanga was a short, plump figure with a face of forbidding ugliness. He also limped badly. People generally felt sorry for Isabel because of this money marriage, except perhaps those who had rejected the proud, only-so-sophisticated girl with their courtship. If Isabel could not boast of her husband's appearance, she boasted all the more of his wealth; her sumptuous toilette was literally covered with diamonds; wherever jewellery could be attached, on the fingers and arms, on the neck, in the hair, the light also broke into a thousand colours. The second focal point was a young man whose freshly scarred face showed the part he had taken in the last battles. The slim, powerful officer was hilarious, the younger gentlemen and ladies sought him out wherever they could, but when he hurried laughing to another group, many a pitying look was sent after him, and it was unmistakable that the older officers avoided him. This man was Frank Carter, then only an ordinary lieutenant, and it was generally known that his jocularity was only gallows humour. At any moment a courier could arrive to banish Carter from this place of joy, perhaps take him behind sinister dungeon walls, but in any case bring him his discharge from the army. Frank Carter was guilty of the most serious offence a soldier can commit: he had disobeyed the orders of a superior and acted according to his own judgement, and in wartime, close to the enemy! It had been in the battle of Nursingpur. The rebels had entrenched themselves on hills and their cannons were spewing chopped lead into the ranks of the onrushing English.