Felix Grey and the Descendant

The East India Club

– September 29th, 1904 –

It was close to midnight when the final carriage of the evening pulled to a halt outside the East India Club in St James's Square. The driver, a slender man in a black trench coat, peered over the carriage railings and called to the gentleman slumped on the seat inside.

'We have arrived, My Lord.'

Lord Monteagle stirred and slowly opened his eyes. He was still feeling the effects of an afternoon spent drinking fine wine with his associates in Fitzrovia.

'East India Club, sir,' said a porter, opening the carriage door.

Monteagle heaved himself up from his seat and stepped groggily from the carriage onto the busy pavement. Mayfair was always busiest in the long winter months. The incessant rain did little to dampen the spirits of those gentlemen who frequented the clubs long established in the area. They stretched from St James's to Berkeley Square and boasted some of the most beautiful buildings in the city; great Georgian houses spread over five floors of marble and stone.

Monteagle had barely straightened his top hat and tie when an elegant, dark-skinned woman approached. She wore a sheer patterned tea gown and her piercing green eyes shone brightly against her oil-black hair.

'Welcome, My Lord,' she said, in a mild Indian accent. 'My name is Seema Sharma. I am a hostess at the East India. Mr Burbage has been anticipating your arrival.'

'Very well,' Monteagle slurred, his breath emanating a strong smell of alcohol, 'let us proceed.'

Seema Sharma led Monteagle up the wide stairs and through the large oak doors into the club's bustling reception hall. In the centre of the room, framed by ornate vases overflowing with wildflowers from the Indian subcontinent, stood a towering sculpture of the goddess Durga sat on a lion. A representation of the club's past as a base for workers of the East India Company and commissioned officers of Her Majesty's Army and Navy who had served in India.

Monteagle followed the hostess through the busy hall towards the winding staircase. He took a moment to study the paintings hanging from the walls as they passed. They were large portraits of past maharajas and British governors of India, all equal in size and splendour.

'Does it surprise you to see Indian maharajas on the walls of a London club?' Seema Sharma asked, observing Monteagle's amazed expression.

'Nothing surprises me anymore,' Monteagle replied, irreverently.

'These pictures are a representation of our combined wealth and power,' continued the hostess. 'They depict what can be achieved by the coming together of our two great nations.'

'Ha!' Monteagle scoffed. 'You would speak of India in the same breath as you would England?'

'Do you not invest your English wealth in our Indian resources?' Seema Sharma asked.

'You forget yourself!' Monteagle barked, affronted by the hostess's familiarity.

'My humble apologies,' hissed Seema Sharma. 'I did not mean to offend. Please, let us continue.'

At the top of the staircase, the hallway split in two directions. Seema Sharma led Monteagle along the west corridor, accentuated by a vibrant red-and-gold carpet, towards a wooden door adorned with a carving of the elephant god, Ganesha.

'They are just through here, My Lord,' she said, opening the door and inviting Monteagle to enter.

Inside, a group of gentlemen sat around an oval table with neatly stacked banknotes piled up in front of them. Jonathan Burbage, a greying gentleman, well-turned-out with warm blue eyes, rose to greet Monteagle.