The Last Kashmiri Rose Page 9

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Nancy. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever tried.’

  ‘Come on, then,’ said Joe, with a quick glance around which told him that, satisfactorily, every eye in the room was following them. ‘Hold tight! Now!’

  ‘That was good!’ said Nancy. ‘Let’s do it again!’

  Under the proximity engendered by this complicated manoeuvre, Joe let his cheek brush hers.

  ‘What shall we do next?’ said Nancy.

  Joe raised an eyebrow.

  ‘No! I wasn’t talking about a hot, squashy time behind the potted palms in the kala juggah! What over-heated stories have you been listening to about memsahibs? I was talking about the investigation, for goodness sake! Just remember I’m the Collector’s lady! The Governor’s niece! Caesar’s wife!’

  ‘Seriously,’ said Joe, ‘you may not think so but I’m working through my list and I want to see Forbes, the husband of the girl who went over the precipice, to find out if he’s got anything to add. But, more importantly, Carmichael, the snake girl’s husband. Neither is on the station still. Is it known where they are?’

  ‘More or less, but not exactly. Carmichael sent in his papers just before the war. He wasn’t particularly happy with Joan as I think I told you but all the same, he was pretty shattered by her death. Who wouldn’t have been? But she left him quite a lot of money and, as I say, he left the army and went into business in Calcutta. Wine imports or something of that sort. He went into partnership with some box-wallahs, Gujeratis from Bombay, I think. They didn’t get on. Not surprised about that – not many people found they could get on with Harold Carmichael. He was very bitter. He was passed over once or twice and when the war began he didn’t rejoin the regiment so he didn’t go to France with them. He was very much criticised for having stayed safe. Perhaps I’m being unfair. He wasn’t very fit and – as I say – he was very knocked about by Joan’s death. They say demon drink took its toll too. I suppose he still lives in Calcutta.’

  ‘And Sheila Forbes’ husband?’

  ‘The regimental doctor and a good one by all accounts. He went out to France with the regiment but got a job in the Hospitals Inspectorate after the war and he’s based in Calcutta too though I expect he spends most of the year on tour.’

  ‘So, in other words, if we wearily tracked our way back to Calcutta we could perhaps see both of these gents? True?’

  Nancy nodded and said, ‘Leave it to me. I’ll do a little telephoning tomorrow,’ and added, ‘I wonder what everybody thinks we’re talking about so earnestly? I bet nobody suspects that we’re at the throbbing heart of a police enquiry.’

  ‘Throbbing?’ said Joe. ‘Maybe, but not at the heart of a police enquiry. I ought to be saying, “I say, old girl, you look jolly fetching, I must say, in that get up. And, I say, when am I going to see you? I mean see you properly?”’ And, his voice dropping to a seductive growl, ‘“I want to see more of you!” Am I getting it right?’

  ‘Certainly,’ said Nancy. ‘Jane Fortescue certainly thought so!’

  ‘Jane Fortescue? Who on earth’s she?’

  ‘She was just beside us when you made that remark. And don’t imagine that won’t be echoing round the bridge tables and the mah jong sessions tomorrow!’ And she went into her own imitation, ‘“My dear, who was that man, plastered to Nancy Drummond?”’

  ‘Not all that plastered,’ said Joe sadly.

  With a riff of drums, the band fell silent and the voice of the comp`ere was heard. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, please take your partners for a gentlemen’s excuse-me.’

  The Shropshire Light Infantry went dreamily into ‘If You Were the Only Girl in the World’.

  Joe led Nancy away from the other dancers to the edge of the room and they stood for a moment together, Joe’s protective arm still unnecessarily close about her waist. A laughing thick-set young man tugging an unwilling girl in his wake bumped into Joe and excused himself. ‘Andrew! So sorry, old man! Oh! Good Lord! Sorry again … not Andrew … er, oh, I say!’

  Nancy cut short his embarrassment. ‘Harry! You find me in the hands of the police! This is the Commander Sandilands I was telling you about. Joe, this is Harry Featherstone, our Deputy Collector.’

  They shook hands and, muttering further apologies, Harry hauled his partner on to the floor.

  ‘Do you mind if we don’t attempt a gentlemen’s excuse-me?’ he said. ‘But I could do with a drink.’

  ‘Come along, then,’ said Nancy. ‘It’s about time I introduced you to my husband. He’ll give you a drink. I’m booked for this one, though I can’t see my partner.’ And she took him to a corner of the room where a middle-aged man sat with one long leg awkwardly askew on a stool and with two pretty girls sharing his foot rest. ‘That’s my husband,’ she said. ‘He may be lame and he may even perhaps be old but I can’t help noticing he’s never alone!’

  Joe looked and liked what he saw. Nancy leant across and kissed the top of his head. ‘Andrew,’ she said, ‘this is Commander Sandilands – Sandilands of the Met as they call him.’

  ‘I hope they don’t,’ said Joe.

  Drummond extended a hand. ‘Excuse my not getting up,’ he said. ‘Wasn’t there a book by Edgar Wallace called Sandilands of the River?’

  ‘Sanders of the River, I think,’ said Joe. ‘But a book called Bulldog Drummond did come out at Christmas.’

  ‘And this,’ Nancy continued, ‘is my husband, the distinguished Collector of Panikhat.’

  They shook hands and as the two girls were led away by partners, Joe sat down beside the Collector who snapped his fingers at a passing waiter for a drink. ‘Pink gin do you? That’s what I’m drinking. I’m so glad you’re here. Rumours abound, I know. Nancy, bless her heart, has got the bit completely between her teeth – seems to have Uncle on her side, in the presence of whom, of course, a humble Collector takes back seat! I really admire her, you know. She doesn’t let things drop but …’ He paused for a long time and gave Joe a level glance. ‘Tell me, Sandilands,’ he said, ‘speaking confidentially – is she on the point of making a fool of herself? Digging all this up after all these years? Could be, you know. Not trying to force a confidence, of course, but give me a lead if you can. Is this a lot of nonsense?’

  Joe decided to trust his instincts. He judged that Andrew Drummond was a man in whom he could – and must – confide and said carefully, ‘It’s early days for me, you do realise that, I’m sure. I’ve only been here two days. But I’m bound to say, as far as first impressions go … I think the whole thing stinks! How easy it is to criticise, and I’ve no idea what facilities were available to the police or the coroner at the time, but – looking at it now from the perspective of 1922 – very sloppy police work. Witnesses not interviewed, statements taken on trust, no fingerprinting or blood typing done and more of the same. I’m speaking without prejudice but you did ask me and that’s my impression.’

  ‘Well, I’ll tell you something, my boy,’ said the Collector, ‘that’s been my bloody impression too! I wasn’t here before the war and I wasn’t here during the war and perhaps I have no right to speak and, God knows, I don’t want a scandal to sweep through the station but if we’re really talking about murder, more than one murder, we have a duty, I have a duty, you have a duty. Police giving you facilities, are they? Oh, you’ve got Naurung in your corner, have you? Now there’s one that’ll go far! Spotted him a long time ago! With Indianisation going at the pace it is, I wouldn’t be surprised if we were looking at the next Superintendent of Police but two.’

  ‘Not, I fear, if his advancement depends to any degree on Superintendent Bulstrode.’

  Andrew gave him a shrewd look. ‘It doesn’t – but I note your concern. I gather our local law enforcer has failed to impress?’

  ‘I haven’t time – we haven’t time – for niceties, Drummond. We learned not to wrap things up in the war so I hope you’ll understand if I say plainly – the man’s an incompetent fool or else he’s cleverer than I at first g
ave him credit for and is up to something I shall have to get to the bottom of. How well do you know him?’

  ‘Not well. He’s been here on the station for years but, funnily, there’s not many who would say they know him well, I think. He doesn’t find policing the civil lines, the cantonment, particularly onerous, of course – hardly any crime to speak of. No, his value and, Sandilands, it is a value, is in policing the native town. Not an easy task. It’s heavily overcrowded, many different races and castes living on top of each other in the most squalid conditions. It could be a nightmare but Bulstrode seems able to keep the lid on with surprising efficiency. Not what you expect to hear, no doubt, but in fact, I have to say, he makes my life very easy.’

  Joe considered this. ‘He speaks Hindustani well? That must be a help.’

  ‘Hindustani, yes, and fluent Bengali which is what most of the natives speak. Many of us who’ve lived here all our lives do, as a matter of course.’

  A girl paused beside him to sip from his drink, extended her cheek for a kiss and went on her way.

  ‘Briefly then,’ Joe began, ‘this is where I’ve got to.’ And slowly his discoveries and suspicions began to unfold. Andrew Drummond listened with the closest attention, asked sensible questions from time to time and, as Joe’s account drifted to its close, he said:

  ‘Only one of the “incidents” took place in my time. We have the evidence of the photographs that Nancy took. The girl’s wrists! I’m not Sherlock Holmes, still less Sir Bernard Spilsbury the distinguished pathologist, but even I could see she could never have inflicted the wounds herself. Now, if we’re accepting the alternative, that is to say it wasn’t suicide but murder, we’re looking at a very clever fellow. A very clever murderer. He’d set this up with such care! He’s not going to make the foolish mistake of cutting the right wrist left to right and it occurs to my suspicious mind that this may be a mistake made deliberately to keep the police on their toes. To make sure that notice was taken. To draw attention to what he’d been up to. Keeping his head well below the parapet but there’s no doubt in my mind – he wants us to know he’s there! For some reason it’s important to him to announce his presence. What do you think? Could be so, couldn’t it? And, if I’m right, we could be dealing with an outstandingly nasty customer! Sandilands! Catch him for us! You catch him and I’ll shoot him!’

  Chapter Eight

  SUNDAY MORNING AND Joe settled down to breakfast. A pot of coffee (excellent), two boiled eggs (perfect), chappatis (leathery), butter (tinned, he suspected, and slightly off) and the most solid, uncompromising pot of Cooper’s Oxford marmalade he’d ever seen. ‘Good old India,’ he thought.

  As he finished dressing he heard the tinny clamour of a church bell. ‘Sunday, of course. Church parade, I suppose. That’s what I’m going to do this morning – set a good example for the honour of the Met. And, anyway, I might pick up some gossip. What was that woman’s name? – Kitty something or other, the doyenne of Panikhat? Perhaps I’ll make a formal call.’

  As he buckled his Sam Browne about him, he checked his pocket to make sure he was equipped with calling cards and set off, swagger stick under his arm, towards the distant church.

  Thunderously in step with a rhythmic clash of nailed boots and marching rigidly to attention, the second battalion of the Shropshire Light Infantry overtook him and preceded him into the whitewashed garrison church. They took their places, noisily securing their rifles in the racks provided. Joe remembered that since the Mutiny, where a very large number of people had been caught unarmed in church and massacred, British troops now paraded each with twenty rounds of ball, each with his side-arm.

  A rather sanctimonious-looking sergeant in the Royal Corps of Signals, acting as sidesman, looked him up and down and showed him to an appropriate pew, probably accurately gauging Joe’s social consequence in doing so. If it wasn’t for the troops, if it wasn’t for the heat, if it wasn’t for the punkha beating overhead, he really might be in any suburban church in England. Automatically, he looked at the hymn board, read off the numbers and checked through the hymn book provided to see if he knew any of them.

  ‘All Hail the Power of Jesus’ Name’, ‘There Is a Green Hill Far Away’ and – wouldn’t you know? – ‘Onward Christian Soldiers’. His customary churchgoing ritual complete, he looked round, seeing the haggard face of William Somersham, gazing at the dutiful faces of Greys officers, taking in the mutinous faces of British Other Ranks in serried rows and alighting with pleasure on the dark head of the Collector and, with an unseemly lurch of the heart, on Nancy at his side. The Collector also was scanning the scene and, as his eye lighted on Joe, he gently nudged Nancy and raised a stately but genial hand in greeting.

  The chaplain preached inaudibly, the Shropshire Light Infantry sang uproariously, the assembled mems added their fluted accompaniment and Joe was out in the sunshine once more. His attention fixed at once on a recognisable and formidable female figure – Kitty, Mrs Kitson-Masters, conveniently standing talking to Nancy and Andrew Drummond.

  ‘Oh, Nancy!’ he thought. ‘Could we get a couple of horses, ride out into the country, take a picnic with us, find somewhere to swim? Dash it, it could be work! We could discuss the case, we could pool our thoughts …’

  Settling his cap on his head, he made his way over to them and saluted. ‘Good morning, Collector,’ he said formally. ‘Good morning, Mrs Drummond. Did you hear me singing in harmony in “There Is a Green Hill Far Away”?’

  ‘Oh, it was you, was it?’ said Kitty. ‘I heard it! Haven’t heard that since I was at school! You should come more often. We’re short of male voices in the choir. There, I know who you are, or I would know who you are if the Collector would condescend to introduce us.’

  ‘I was,’ said Joe, ‘thinking I might do myself the honour of calling …’

  She eyed him with a calculating and seeing eye, standing stiff as a ramrod, as would befit the widow of the Collector. A bearer stood beside her, parasol in one hand, hymn book, prayer book and service sheet and what Joe guessed was a bottle of smelling salts in the other.

  ‘Yes,’ she said in a decisive voice, ‘do that, Commander. Perhaps you would do me the honour of walking back with me? We must leave the Collector and his wife to do the polite. It’s usual after matins. Nancy, my dear, I declare, you get more the burra mem by the minute! I’ve always seen myself as the senior lady on this station but I’m going to have to watch out! You’ll never be as good as I was but you’ll always be a great deal prettier! Right, then, come with me, Commander!’

  They set off together through the heat and dust. As they walked the call for sick parade rang out and Joe found himself automatically fitting the words to it:

  Sixty-four, ninety-four,

  He’ll never go sick no more.

  The poor bugger’s dead!

  And as they walked, they passed two British Other Ranks, by their pale faces obviously new recruits, hands on hips, disparagingly surveying Panikhat.

  ‘Panikhat?’ they heard one say. ‘Phanikhat … Phanicunt if you ask me!’

  ‘Could do with a bit of that,’ said the other.

  ‘Yer, a nice dog an’ duck! S’what we all need!’

  Joe’s face remained impassive as they passed by in earshot. He wondered if Kitty had understood this and from the increased rigidity of her spine as she walked, he guessed that she had and liked her the better for it.

  On arrival at her spacious bungalow, surrounded by the best gardens Joe had yet seen in Panikhat, a cascade of servants tumbled out of the door to greet them. A maidservant took Kitty’s hat and veil, her bearer handed over her churchgoing gear to another servant, a third set drinks out on the verandah and a fourth abjured a punkha-wallah to speed it up.

  Kitty led him to a long chair. ‘I know why you’re here, of course,’ she began without preamble. ‘The station is divided, you know. Did you know that? Divided into those who think you’re wasting your time and wish you’d leave sleeping dogs to lie –
this faction is headed by Superintendent Bulstrode, but I suppose he would think that. Anything you might turn up reflects unkindly on police procedures – and then there’s the other faction that thinks there’s been dirty work at the crossroads and this is headed by Nancy, under the benevolent eye of Andrew, of course. His eye is always benevolent where Nancy’s concerned as I dare say you’ve already found. He lets her do pretty much what she likes. Wouldn’t have done in my day! But there … He was very badly wounded in the war. His game leg is a legacy of the second Battle of the Marne. I respect and admire him and I wouldn’t like anything sad to happen to him. He didn’t have to go off to the war. The Indian Civil Service was a reserved occupation but he’d served for a year or so with the Rajputana Rifles and was on the reserve of officers and they were glad enough to lure him away. With the wartime expansions they needed all the linguists they could recruit so Andrew went off to France and only just made it back again. He always says he owes his life to Nancy’s nursing.’

  After the slightest pause she continued, ‘Now tell me who you’ve met, where you’ve been, what you’ve seen, what you’re thinking. For example – have you met Prentice yet? The Pathans have a name for him. I can’t speak Pushtu so I can’t tell you what it is but – translated it means “never asleep” or something like that. He spent many years on the frontier, you know. Had a second tour with the Gilgit Scouts and only came away because his regiment insisted. Just in time to take them to France. By then he was more Pathan than the Pathan! What he didn’t know about Pukhtunwali …’

  ‘Pukhtunwali?

  ‘Yes, the Pathan code of honour. Giles pretty well lived by it. Still does, I’ve no doubt. Ready to avenge an insult to the third and fourth generation if necessary, ready to defend the stranger within his gates to the same degree. It’s logical, it’s consistent and no doubt essential for existence on the northwest frontier but it can be a frightful nuisance in Bengal. And an intelligent Pathan – if that’s not a contradiction in terms – would be the first to admit that it leads to some wild and ludicrous events. Drink up and have another one – must keep up the fluids in this country!’