The Girl from Cobb Street

by Merryn Allingham

  ‘Are you sure you’ve got them all, Harte?’ His voice was low, cultured. To Daisy, he seemed a being from another world.

  ‘I believe so, sir.’ Grayson nodded towards the men flinching beneath the raised guns. ‘All of the Jasirapur group at least.’

  ‘And the servant?’

  ‘The police have gone with my assistant to pick up Rajiv Gupta. And the cache of arms, too, that he’s been guarding.’

  ‘Good, good,’ the man muttered vaguely. He was looking across at the mud-splattered body which lay between them and the men Anish had called his henchmen. ‘Pity about the lieutenant. I’d like to have seen him stand trial. Bloody traitor!’

  Daisy had been standing slackly by Grayson’s side, unable to stop herself from drooping, but at these words she bunched her hands together into two small fists. Anish was no traitor, she wanted to shout. This was his country. And whatever he’d done, she forgave him for it. He’d been mistaken but he’d believed in his cause—passionately. And she loved him, as a friend, as a sister.

  ‘I must be getting Daisy to a place of safety, sir,’ Grayson said tight-lipped.

  ‘Of course. So sorry you’ve had such a beastly experience, Mrs …’

  ‘Mortimer,’ she said defiantly.

  But the man was already clambering into his sleek, black saloon. Grayson nudged her towards the waiting police car. ‘You’re to go to the Infirmary, Daisy. Dr Lane is waiting for you.’

  The car door slammed shut, the driver hit the accelerator, and the vehicle screeched onto the rain-soaked road, tyres spinning through the mud. She twisted round in her seat and looked back. At the flashing blue lights, at the glint of police guns still levelled at the cowering men, and at Grayson busily directing each arrest. So this is what you were doing in Jasirapur, she said to herself.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Daisy nestled into the deckchair’s canvas fold and watched the ship creaming its way through the ocean. She had only to walk a few yards from her cabin to enjoy the freedom of the upper deck, and since few of the passengers in this select part of the ship chose to rise quite so early, she was enjoying the view undisturbed. In contrast to her outward journey on The Viceroy, her accommodation spelt comfort: a first-class cabin and on the starboard side of the ship. Port outward, starboard home, POSH, that’s what Grayson had said. You avoided the worst of the sun that way. It must have been even more important in the days before cabins were equipped with electric fans. Their space was small, and after a day’s fierce sun, passengers must have felt they were being cooked in their bunks. No wonder they so often slept on deck, men on one side, women on the other. She thought that must have been wonderful—to lie beneath a spread of brilliant stars and watch the ship’s superstructure moving gently against a clear, dark sky. It was almost enough to make her regret the new-fangled fans. But she was grateful for the consideration she’d been shown: the special cabin, the friend to accompany her. In truth, she’d been too stupefied to concern herself with travel arrangements, and had agreed to everything the regiment had suggested.

  It had been a strange few weeks. She had stayed at the Infirmary just one night, sufficient time for Dr Lane to check her over and pronounce that, apart from cuts and bruises, she was fully fit—in body at least. Her mind and heart were something else. There were days before she could leave for Bombay, and a matronly Moslem woman had been deputed to look after her. Amina Masri had moved without fuss into Rajiv’s old quarters but spent most of her time in the house with Daisy, feeding her charge tea and titbits, patting her hand comfortingly and muttering beneath her breath at the wickedness of the world. Grayson had visited only once, ostensibly to make sure that Amina had settled in. In their one-sided conversation, he’d talked to her of everything—the weather, his colleagues, letters from home—everything but the events of that terrible night. It had been out of respect for her fragility, she imagined, but also perhaps because his task was done and dusted. Anish was dead, and the group Grayson had been tracking so assiduously were locked away and facing justice.

  She had sat and listened politely to him over the teacups, but his voice had come to her as though it were travelling through a dream. In the same fashion, she’d imbibed the Colonel’s speech of regret and nodded blankly at the police chief, as he proudly declared that her captors, together with Rajiv, were now in jail and awaiting trial. She knew she must have thanked the Adjutant for his expertise in organising a swift passage home, but she had no memory of the words she’d used. Her mind was constantly telling her that none of this was happening, none of this had happened. And yet it had. A grand tragedy had played itself out against the setting of her small life, and she was still struggling with the aftermath. Try as she might, its echoes would not let her go.

  Her time in India was ended but despite everything she’d endured, she had not wanted to leave. In the end she’d had no choice and, almost in a trance, she’d packed her few possessions in the cardboard suitcase, and waited for transport to arrive that would take her to Marwar Junction and on to Bombay. It had been as sad a departure as it had been a homecoming, for in the end she’d been sorry to say goodbye even to the bungalow. The rains had transformed it, or rather they’d transformed its garden, and that in turn had made the house newly welcoming. Within a few days of the monsoon arriving, the land had turned green, covered in a carpet of brightly coloured, scented flowers, which tangled themselves in and out of the long alfalfa grass. Along the pathway which once sported nothing more than dry dust, frogs and toads were in constant motion, crossing and recrossing the new lushness. At times, the heat of the sun would suck the vapour from the ground so strongly it rose a foot high, and for several hours would hang there unmoving. Like an altar curtain, she decided, like the opaque screen she had sat behind on so many childhood Sundays. The rain brought with it snakes and cockroaches emerging from their hiding places, mosquitoes too, and greenfly and small black beetles. But she didn’t mind. The sheer freshness of the world charmed her and whenever it stopped raining sufficiently for her to venture outside, she would sit quietly on the veranda watching the garden rebuild itself beneath her gaze.

  Snippets of news gradually filtered through from the cantonment and found their way to the island she inhabited. Gerald’s body had not been recovered and officially he was ‘presumed dead’. It was accepted without question by his fellow officers that both he and Anish had died trying to rescue her from her assailants, and she said nothing to disabuse them. A letter had come from Jocelyn in Simla, full of warm sympathy for Daisy and sadness and admiration for the two dead men. She was glad she wouldn’t be meeting her friend face to face for surely she would have confessed the truth. But everyone was happy with the story as it stood, the police too, and it seemed best to let things lie. She doubted the prisoners would complicate matters, since the tale that was being told exonerated the leader they respected and accorded him an honourable death. Why she had been captured remained a mystery to most, but there was a general presumption that it must have been for money. Grayson’s very special branch of the ICS, of course, knew differently, and though it must have stuck in their throats—particularly the throat of the pinstriped man, as Daisy thought of him—they had said nothing to contradict this view. She imagined they were playing a long game and hadn’t wanted to alert other nationalist groups in Rajputana that they knew of any kind of link with the Indian Army. Their official stance was that only Indian civilians had been involved in the fracas, and that these men were being summarily dealt with.

  If only it were that simple. If only she could rid herself of a guilt that threatened to overwhelm. Gerald had tried to save her, had sacrificed his own life, but all she could feel for him was gratitude. There was sorrow in her heart, of course, but it was undefined, the kind of sadness people feel when they hear of an unexpected death, of someone they barely knew. It was not the kind of sorrow that should be felt for the loss of a husband, dying in such tragic circumstances. Yet when she thought of Anish, her grief
was acute, and that made her feel even guiltier. She couldn’t explain her feelings to herself. He’d been no more than a friend, a good friend it was true, but it must be wrong to feel his death so severely. Her friendship had been repaid in the most terrible way. Day after day while he’d ridden with her, talked and laughed with her, Anish had been pursuing a cruel campaign of fear and confusion. His betrayal was dreadful and his willingness to sacrifice her thoroughly wicked. Yet she couldn’t stop a small part of her understanding his reasons, understanding the power of his cause and how it had pushed him into such fearful action.

  Gerald was different. He’d believed only in the power of money. Money to fund a life based on vanity and illusion. And he’d died living that illusion, his death recorded in the name of Lieutenant Gerald Mortimer. In changing his name he had made himself difficult, if not impossible, to trace. There had been no mention of Minns in the official papers, no link to those forgotten parents. She was the sole person who knew the fate of their only child, and one day she would try to find them. She had Joseph’s letter safe in her suitcase. But it would be the most difficult of meetings and she knew she was not yet strong enough to manage it. She must first regain peace of mind, if that were possible, and then decide what was to become of her.

  Whenever she thought of the life that stretched ahead, the feelings of guilt bit harder still. She was walking to her future a free woman and the very words warmed her with shame. Gerald’s death had liberated her from a barely tolerable burden. That was the unadorned truth, and it was not a pleasant thought. The marriage was no more, India was no more. Its smells and sounds and sights—the colour and shape of its plants, the grace of its people, the searing sun and the torrential rain, the cool dawn and the lovely scent of sundown—all gone. Like her marriage, gone for ever.

  Her thoughts had buried her deep in a lost world, and she barely noticed the man approach until a shadow fell and for a moment blotted out the brightness. A figure stood looking down at her, eyes creased against the bright light.

  ‘I thought I might find you here.’

  She’d hardly seen Grayson during the voyage. He had accompanied her to Bombay and she’d expected him to say goodbye to her at the port. But he hadn’t. She’d learned then that he was coming with her, that he’d been designated her escort for the journey back to England. She’d been unsure whether to feel glad or sorry, but in the end she’d found him a tactful companion, never forcing his presence on her and for the most part leaving her to enjoy the solitude she craved. They’d stood together in silence as the boat slipped from its berth in Bombay harbour and watched as naked youngsters dived for the pennies thrown from the side of the ship. A band had been playing, and coloured streamers were being thrown by their fellow passengers to the people shouting and waving from the quayside. He’d remained standing beside her as they slid past bright white buildings, past islands gold and amethyst in the misty early sunlight, and finally past the great Archway of India and out into the deep blue ocean. Will that be your last view of India? she’d said, and he’d shaken his head at the uncertainty of all their futures.

  ‘How are you this bright morning?’ he was asking.

  ‘I’m well, thank you. Much better.’ Was she? Even if she weren’t, she must pretend. ‘I’m determined to enjoy the weather while it’s still warm.’

  Their first week at sea had been hot and sunny, and she’d spent hours sitting in this very deckchair, watching the changing sapphires of the ocean, marvelling at the flying fish skimming a scarcely moving sea.

  ‘You’re wise. We should both make the most of it. I’ve been speaking to the Captain and the weather forecast once we get into the Med isn’t at all good.’ He pulled a spare deckchair into line. ‘Do you mind if I join you for a while?’

  She would have preferred to remain alone, but he’d been so very understanding that it would be churlish to refuse. It was unusual for him to seek her out in this way, and she thought there was likely to be a good reason. He fell into the chair beside her and stretched out his long limbs. For a while there was silence. It was interesting, she thought, that on the few occasions they’d sat together, neither felt the need to make conversation.

  She glanced sideways at him and saw that his expression was uncertain. He was judging whether or not he should speak. ‘I’ve just received a telegram. The trial date is set.’ His tone verged on the brusque, and she could see that he hadn’t wanted to tell her.

  She swallowed hard but tried to sound unruffled. ‘That was very swift.’

  ‘The police are keen to wrap the whole business up. Of course, it won’t wrap it up—far from it—but they’re not too interested in the bigger picture, and I suppose it gives them a good feeling to have this one success under their belts.’

  ‘Will there be many others—to wrap up? I imagine the men you caught weren’t the only group operating locally.’

  ‘Other units exist certainly. Even in the short time I was in Jasirapur, I uncovered evidence to suggest around a dozen of them are spread across the region. The one we disrupted was small fry.’

  Anish would not have liked the description, but Grayson’s conclusions were an uncomfortable echo of what he himself had claimed. He’d talked of groups of fighters across Rajputana who would carry on the struggle, one after the other. It was hard to think of him. It was impossible to think of him, without recalling their last ghastly meeting. The memory was never far away, ready to pinch at her in unguarded moments. In her mind, the scene was as vivid as though painted on a canvas: the blank space of the warehouse, feet scuffing at the mud floor, rain hammering on the roof overhead and outside the constant roar of a deadly river.

  With difficulty, she forced herself back to the world of sunlight. ‘But your work in India has finished, I take it?’

  ‘For the time being. I may have to return to give evidence at the trial. I don’t yet know, but I’m hopeful that a signed witness statement will suffice. It’s a long journey to make again.’

  ‘Then you should have stayed in Jasirapur, at least until the trial was over. Did the regiment put pressure on you to accompany me? I wish they hadn’t.’

  ‘There was no pressure,’ he reassured her. ‘It’s important I report in person to my employers in Whitehall, and as soon as possible. You were on your way home, and it made sense for us to travel together.’

  When she said nothing, he said teasingly, ‘You’re making me feel you’d have preferred to travel alone.’

  ‘I wouldn’t.’ And she realised with surprise, that she spoke the truth. ‘But I imagine the police must have wanted you to remain in India.’

  ‘That wasn’t a consideration. If I’d stayed, I would have been kicking my heels. I couldn’t continue to masquerade as a District Officer. Not that I did that very effectively. But with my cover well and truly blown, it was impossible to launch any new investigation.’

  ‘I always thought you were a strange kind of District Officer.’ He smiled at her accusing tone. ‘You told me you were with the ICS and that it was your first posting abroad.’

  ‘I could hardly tell you I was a junior intelligence officer, could I? In any case, some of what I said was true. It was my first overseas job and I was seconded to the ICS. The SIS—the Secret Intelligence Service, in case you’re wondering—quite often uses less devious parts of the administration to cover its tracks. Hence my role as a harmless civil servant.’

  She glanced out to sea, losing herself for a moment in its gentle swell. They’d begun at last to talk of Jasirapur and she was glad. There were dangers ahead, painful territory that couldn’t be avoided, but she needed to go on with this conversation. There were things she must discover, even though it might hurt.

  ‘Were you working as an intelligence officer on the voyage out. When I met you on The Viceroy?’

  ‘Pretty much. We’d been getting some alarming reports back in London. Guns were being stolen across India, but the problem was particularly bad in Rajputana. Those men on the boat, th
e ones who … the ones who caused your fall, had given us a good deal of information while they were in Wandsworth awaiting deportation. Enough for me to be sent out to discover just what was happening on the ground.’

  She turned to face him, looking directly into his eyes. ‘Tell me truly, Grayson. Did you always know about Anish’s involvement and about Gerald’s? Were you hunting them from the very beginning?’

  His gaze was candid. He was not going to fudge, not going to make things easy for her. But that was what she wanted. ‘Not initially. But I came to suspect them soon after I arrived. You learn a lot hanging around the market, and it didn’t take me long to discover that Anish Rana was linked in some way to an extremist group. I didn’t at first connect him with any gun running. But large quantities were being stolen from the Jasirapur cantonment under the very eyes of the guards. I still didn’t see how he fitted in, though. As an Indian officer I knew he wouldn’t have access to the armoury. He would have needed assistance from someone. And then I saw the bungalow and saw how isolated it was. And noticed, too, that contrary to every other British family in the whole of India, Gerald employed only one servant. That started me thinking why that might be.’

  ‘Rajiv was intensely loyal to Gerald.’

  ‘So I imagine. I’m sure he would happily have done his bidding, whatever the task. I’ve no doubt that he was responsible for many of the unpleasant things that happened to you. I’m certain, for instance, that he was the one who coaxed the cobra into your bathroom.’

  ‘And the one who locked my bedroom door and suggested there was a ghost haunting the garden.’

  ‘Poor Daisy. You were made to suffer badly.’ His hand reached across and squeezed her fingers.

  ‘You didn’t appear suspicious of the cobra,’ she said a trifle indignantly. ‘You made me believe it was an accident.’

  ‘That was for your peace of mind. And it could have been an accident. Cobras will sometimes find their way into a bathroom. They try to escape from the heat, and often there are large water containers they can wind themselves around to cool off. I thought it odd but I couldn’t prove anything.’