Ragtime in Simla Read online

  ‘I’ve had a preliminary search through his luggage,’ said Joe. ‘Found this hidden in a compartment in the lining.’ He produced the leather case. ‘Here, we have photographic evidence of possible next of kin – a brother and younger sibling. Presumably his agent will know where they are.’

  ‘Well, that’s a start. And there’s the question of a funeral. He can’t just lie in the morgue for ever and we can’t just shovel him underground – he was, after all, an international figure.’

  ‘See your problem… should be massed choirs, banks of flowers…’ Joe’s voice trailed away.

  ‘We don’t have much in the way of refrigeration here. We must talk to Sir George. These are deep waters for a country bobby like me!’

  ‘And me! I have no real authority in the case at all. And I have to confess to you that I undertook to interview Sharpe this morning. Hope I haven’t muddied the waters.’ He set out his suspicions and talked his way through his recent interview with Sharpe, collecting his random thoughts as he did so. When his account reached its conclusion Carter rose and took a pace or two about the room.

  ‘That was well done. I don’t know if you agree with me but surely the most significant thing you’ve turned up is this change in the confirmation letter directing the poor sod to come by tonga. Find the man who did that and we’ve found out something which could hang a man.’

  ‘I’m seeing Alice Sharpe again this afternoon,’ said Joe. ‘I may be able to glean a bit more. I gather from her husband that she’s the real driving force in the theatre. She may have her own suspicions.’

  They talked on until the khitmutgar summoned them to the table.

  ‘We eat on the terrace. I hope you don’t mind?’ said Meg Carter. ‘I never tire of looking at the view and it’s nice to sit in the breeze. And anyway, our dining room is dark and our dining-room furniture repulsive.’

  ‘Not repulsive,’ said Carter defensively.

  ‘Oh, Charlie, it is! It was old and repulsive before when we bought it off Brigadier Robinson, since when it’s had six years of attention from these two.’ She waved a hand at her two daughters who were sitting politely side by side with their napkins round their necks. It was an English scene and, if Mrs Carter was English, so was the lunch. Shepherd’s pie and an apple tart and custard.

  ‘Charlie tells me you’ve fallen for Alice Conyers? If so, I’m not surprised. Everybody does. Including Charlie. Including these two,’ she added, indicating her children.

  ‘I admit it,’ said Joe. ’I thought she was delightful! And rather more than that – practical, sensible, energetic. Oh, no – I thought she was a lass unparalleled.’

  ‘I think she is. And lucky to be alive!’

  ‘Lucky to be alive?’

  ‘Lucky to have survived the smash. The Beaune railway disaster! You’re going to tell me you haven’t heard? It’s usually the first thing anybody says about Alice.’

  Carter joined in. ‘Yes, when she first came out three years ago she was coming down by train from Paris to Marseilles and planning to spend a couple of weeks in the south of France seeing the sights before taking the P&O to Bombay. The train went off the rails crossing a viaduct near Beaune. Terrible accident, perhaps the worst France has ever had.’

  ‘Oh, of course,’ said Joe, ‘I remember it. I remember hearing about it. Just after the war. I never connected it.’

  ‘No reason why you should but Alice was the only survivor – at least I think she was the only survivor. There were over two hundred fatalities. The companion she was travelling with was killed and she woke up and found herself in a French hospital, alone and miles from home.’

  ‘What an extraordinary story,’ said Joe. ‘What happened then?’

  ‘Well, under the terms of her grandfather’s will she was the majority shareholder in ICTC and they were expecting her on the next boat. Nothing loath – and you’ll find this is Alice all over – she wired her trustees in London to say she was quite all right and intended to continue the journey as scheduled. She spent the spare two weeks recuperating in hospital – she wasn’t completely unscathed.’

  ‘The scar on her cheek?’

  ‘Yes, that. Plus a couple of cracked ribs, sprained this and that. Anyway, half dead though she was, she showed the enterprise we all associate her with – she made friends with a woman who was nursing her in the hospital and Alice took her on as her private nurse, lady’s maid, companion – call it what you will. They managed to locate her luggage and they came out to India on the boat as planned. She’s still here, the companion. In Simla as a matter of fact. Name’s Marie-Jeanne Pitiot. Alice started her up in a little shop in the Mall. What’s it called, Meg?’

  ‘La Belle Epoque,’ said Meg. ‘Very exclusive, by which I mean very expensive. I look in the windows and hurry away before anyone charges me for the privilege – you know, that sort of establishment! All the best people shop there – it’s rumoured that even H.E. has been seen shopping there.’

  ‘H.E.?’

  ‘Her Excellency. The Vicereine, Lady Reading. She too is a friend of Alice’s.’

  ‘And who owns the shop?’ Joe wanted to know.

  The Carters looked at each other. ‘It’s in Marie-Jeanne’s name, I believe,’ said Carter.

  ‘But Alice, of course, supplies her with stock,’ added Meg. ‘It’s just another of her outlets. And it has gone from strength to strength. Marie-Jeanne’s opened another branch in Bombay and they say she has one planned for Delhi next year.’

  ‘So the accident didn’t bring bad luck to everyone,’ said Joe thoughtfully. ’I’d like to have a word with Mademoiselle Pitiot.’

  ‘Well, Alice must have been very grateful to Marie-Jeanne and they have remained good friends. Alice is very generous, you know.’

  ‘And richer than she was when she came out here,’ said Carter. ’Everybody admires her business flair. ICTC was a good old-fashioned outfit when she arrived, ticking over solidly, highly respected and sound, making money. People were a bit nervous when a little twenty-one-year-old came out holding fifty-one per cent of the shares in her hand.’

  ‘They were even more nervous at the idea of Reggie Sharpe holding forty-nine,’ sniffed Meg.

  ‘But, as it turned out, she never put a foot wrong. The first thing she did was to marry Reggie, her second cousin, and change her name to Conyers-Sharpe. The second thing was to offer retirement to the pack of distant family members who had been overseeing the company in Bombay and replace them with two Eurasians and one Indian. You may imagine how unpopular that was! But she and Reggie set to work to run the company together. Good career move. It was obviously to their mutual advantage to keep their money bags in one hand.’

  ‘I met Reggie Sharpe this morning,’ said Joe. ‘Didn’t like him much.’

  ‘Not surprised!’ said Meg Carter explosively. ‘I can’t stand him! Charlie always makes allowances but then he makes allowances for everybody. If he told the truth he’d say he can’t stand him either. He’s not a bit like Alice. Where Alice was and is a really good businessman, Reggie is just a pretentious ass, idle, drinks like a fish — ’

  ‘Meg!’ said Carter, seriously annoyed. ‘You don’t know that.’

  ‘Everybody knows that! You should hear Dulcie Pettigrew!’

  ‘I’ve no desire to hear Dulcie Pettigrew,’ said Carter. ’Sharpest tongue in Simla! Wouldn’t believe a word she said. All the same, it is true that he is something of a layabout. There is a sort of huntin’, drinkin’, dancin’, gamblin’ mob in Simla, mostly army or ex-army, who make a business of bad behaviour and Reggie Sharpe is right in the middle of that. Johnny Bristow, Bertie Hearn-Robinson, Jackie Carlisle, Edgar Troop, oh they’re all the same! I was going to say I wouldn’t have one of them in the house but then, not one of them would condescend to enter our humble abode! It’s a sort of twilight world – not received by H.E. and I very much doubt if any of them would be received by Sir George. They batten on the visitors, show them around, give them a
good time, show them “the real India” – I can hear it all! Edgar Troop’s the worst! A good deal older than the others and definitely their leader. I can’t stand him but Reggie sees a lot of him, it seems.’

  ‘The wonder of it is that Alice puts up with it,’ said Meg. ‘But they say they pretty much live separate lives now. Alice gets on with all the many things she has to do while Reggie surveys the world through the bottom of a whisky bottle!’

  With this flourish Meg decided that the two round-eyed children had heard enough of adult conversation. She rose from the table and, summoning the help of the ayah with a clap of her hands, bustled them off for their afternoon sleep.

  This flurry of activity over, Carter said confidentially to Joe, ‘You must excuse Meg – though I have to say that’s the reaction you’ll get from any decent woman in Simla once the name of Reggie Sharpe is mentioned. Men seem to rub along easily enough with him but there’s something about him that makes women bristle with rage and disgust. I could almost be sorry for him. But, of course, they all know…’

  ‘Know? Know what?’

  Carter stirred uncomfortably and listened for the sounds of laughter from the other end of the bungalow before continuing.

  ‘Well, when I said “huntin’, shootin’ and gamblin’” just now I could have added, er…’

  ‘Whorin’?’ suggested Joe cheerfully.

  ‘Exactly. That coterie may not be received by H.E. but they all find a warm welcome at Madame Flora’s.’

  ‘Madame Flora’s eh? A de luxe establishment I take it?’

  ‘Oh yes. Very recherché! And she is actually French, the madam. The place seems to be run jointly by her and her English protector – who but Edgar Troop! Troop! He’s everything people mean when they talk about a “bounder”. Calls himself Captain Troop but no one’s sure in what outfit. He was never a captain in the British Army or the Indian Army either. He lays claim to having served in the Imperial Russian Army and it may be true. He’s certainly very knowledgeable. Understands the frontier and he’s well connected in tribal territory.’

  ‘Has he any other source of income?’ Joe asked. ‘Apart from battening on Madame Flora? Couldn’t you get him for living on immoral earnings?’

  ‘No, it’s not a crime under the Indian Penal Code. I mean – you couldn’t enforce it. In a country where the avocation of temple prostitute is perfectly respectable such a thing would be ridiculous. And anyway, Edgar Troop takes people on shooting trips. Plenty of starry-eyed tourists to fall for that sort of thing. Really knows his stuff. I took the trouble to go out with him once just to check up, you know. Not ready to risk any amateurs getting themselves chewed up in my territory! I was impressed. He knows what he’s doing all right. And, of course, any check – and I’ve run several – on his financial arrangements shows that they are completely above board and within the law.’ He sighed.

  ‘So you’ve no temptation or inclination to close Madame Flora down?’

  ‘Not at the moment. I like to have the buggers where I can see them! But this is India. Lots of randy young blokes about. Lots of randy old blokes too! The air of Simla affects young and old alike, as you’ll find if you haven’t already.’

  ‘If we raided the place you might find some empty chairs at the next meeting of the Legislative Council?’ suggested Joe.

  ‘Certainly! Embarrassing, what!’

  ‘From the eminence of the clientele I would guess that the place is well run?’

  ‘Come on a raid with me, if you like. See for yourself. No expense spared, you’ll find. It’s run with the efficiency of a top-class hotel and the decor is sumptuous – all red plush, gilt mirrors and subdued lighting, rude but expensive paintings on the wall, you know the sort of thing.’

  ‘And the girls?’

  ‘Something for every taste. European, Eurasian, local girls from the hills. All beautiful. And none under-age or sick or coerced as far as I can establish. They know I’d be down on them like a ton of bricks! And in such an establishment you wouldn’t prosper on the North-West Frontier if boys weren’t available too for anyone who likes his vices versa.’

  ‘Good Lord!’ said Joe. ‘There are huge possibilities for blackmail here.’

  ‘Oh yes. No cases reported to me yet but if I put my mind to it I could think of at least six eminent persons in Simla at this moment whose reputations hang by a thread.’

  ‘And bribery? Has Troop attempted…?’

  ‘First thing he did. So discreetly I couldn’t pin anything on him but I’m sure an offer was made to me. My response left him in no doubt as to where I stood! But it happens all the time.’

  ‘And where is this bordello?’

  ‘It’s cleverly located! It’s in the Lower Bazaar but just off the Mall and down an alleyway between two popular shopping areas. Any lady spotting her husband down there wouldn’t suspect a thing. She’d assume he was on his way to the Stephanatos Emporium to buy himself some cigars or to Latif’s brass foundry to order the taps she’d been nagging for for months. Or – and this is the best bit — ’ Carter gave a cheerful smile, ‘she might even guess that he was about to buy her a bouquet of roses.’

  ‘Roses?’

  ‘Yes! Would you believe the cheek! The front for this operation is actually a flower shop! Madame Flora’s, you see! You enter innocently into a flower shop but if your tastes run to more exotic blooms you are shown into the back and up the stairs.’

  ‘This Flora – what do you know of her?’

  ‘Very little. Mysterious woman. Never appears in public – wouldn’t be received, naturally. She’s French – or pretends to be! I’m no expert but the accent has always seemed to be just a little bit ooh-là-là to my ear. Late twenties, very pretty, perfect manners. She just appeared in Simla out of the blue, under the protection of Edgar Troop, and opened up. With instant success. The money – and it must have taken a fair bit to launch the business – must have been hers. Troop was never in that league financially.’

  Joe sighed. ‘Well, this is all very fascinating but where does it leave us as far as our murders are concerned?’

  ‘Madame Flora was firmly established and doing well about six months before Lionel Conyers appeared or failed to appear in Simla so I’d say absolutely no connection if it weren’t for Reggie Sharpe. He’s the connection. Drinking companion and client of Edgar Troop’s establishment… every reason to want Lionel dead… perhaps Troop is branching out into the bespoke killing business.’

  ‘But the Russian? How does he fit in?’

  Carter shrugged. ‘I’m still not convinced that he does. From any angle, Sandilands, you still look like a better target for an assassin’s bullet than Korsovsky. Someone may have got wind of the fact that Sir George was planning to put his tame ferret down a particularly nasty rat hole in Simla.’

  At that moment Carter’s sharp ears warned him of Meg’s return and he added hurriedly, ‘And listen, Joe, don’t even think of going off to inspect that flower shop by yourself! I couldn’t guarantee your safety. If we have to, we’ll go together – with plenty of back-up!’

  Meg bustled in, happy to resume her revelations about Sharpe, and Joe was very willing to draw her out. ‘Tell me, Meg,’ he said, ‘does Reggie Sharpe work for his living?’

  ‘Not really. But don’t forget he’s on the board of ICTC and a substantial shareholder. It’s common knowledge that Alice takes all the decisions. He does a bit in the ADS, I think. He used to help Alice with some of her charitable things but he doesn’t even do that now. I started to work in the hospital a bit – Lady Reading’s hospital – that’s how I met Alice. She’s an assiduous fund-raiser and works there full time one day a week when she’s in Simla. I like her.’

  Joe smiled. ‘Yes, I gathered that much.’

  ‘Well,’ said Meg Carter defensively, ‘she’s easy. You can get on with her. We’ve worked well together. And the more she does, the more useless does Reggie Sharpe seem.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ said Joe, ‘he re
sents her? It does happen sometimes. Bright active girl, husband trailing along behind… Not a recipe for happiness.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ said Carter. ‘It seems to work all right for us.’

  Joe emerged from the Carter bungalow prepared to walk the short distance back down the lanes to the town centre but, to his surprise, the four rickshaw men who’d brought him there now reappeared, hastily putting away the dice they’d been playing with and presenting themselves again, smiling and keen to be off. Telling himself to remember rickshaws did not operate by the same rules as London taxis, Joe climbed aboard and said, ‘To Mrs Sharpe’s office. ICTC. It’s just off the Mall,’ he added helpfully but the men were away at the mention of her name.

  After ten minutes scraping around corners they were back in the town’s main concourse and weaving their way through the press of foot traffic. Smartly dressed ladies strolled in chattering groups pointing and exclaiming at the displays in shop windows which would not have looked out of place in Paris. Men in army uniforms marched purposefully about at a smart pace, disappearing into the town hall or the telegraph office or making their way along to the army HQ next to St Michael’s Church. Indian ayahs trailed past leading files of small children, mushroom-headed in their oversized solar topees. Joe noticed with amusement that this season the fashion in topees for little girls seemed to be a white covering of broderie anglaise.

  Amongst the soberly dressed English, the showy figures of chaprassis stood out, turbaned, scarlet-coated, each with his important-looking message box in his right hand, sometimes with a file of papers tucked under his arm. They walked swiftly on pointed sandalled feet from public building to public building and Joe realized that what he was looking at was the Empire at work. This dusty, narrow little street so inaccurately called the Mall was the nerve centre of British India, the scarlet messengers the electrical impulses which kept the information flowing.

  Catching a glimpse of a sign advertising ‘Stephanatos Cigarettes. The best in Simla’, Joe, on an impulse, called out to the men to stop, indicating that he wanted to buy some cigarettes. They stopped and waited for him to do his shopping. Joe looked appreciatively at the smart façade with its array of pipes, mounds of exotic tobaccos, cigars of all sizes and brands of cigarettes he had never heard of. He entered the cool, dark and intensely fragrant interior with the anticipation of a child entering a sweetshop. The Indian assistant was eager to please a new customer and disguised his disappointment when Joe asked for a packet of Black Cat cigarettes.