The Damascened Blade

by Barbara Cleverly

  ‘But why Zeman?’ Iskander interrupted. ‘We all ate the food. No one else has been affected!’

  James and Grace looked at each other in horror and each said, ‘Oh, my God!’

  ‘What? What are you saying? Who . . .?’ said Iskander.

  ‘She’s all right, Grace,’ James burst out, grasping her hand. ‘When I left her this morning she was sleeping like a baby and just as pink. She’s all right!’

  ‘I think you’d better tell us what happened in the night, Grace,’ said Joe. Turning to Iskander he said, ‘I think you should know. I heard a noise at three o’clock and woke. When I looked into the corridor Grace was going along to attend to Mrs Lindsay.’

  ‘James fetched me. And yes, it would have been at about three. I – we both – assumed it was a return of the sickness she’s been suffering from lately, aggravated, no doubt, by the unaccustomed rich food. She told me she had a stomach pain, had vomited and she had a high temperature. I gave her some drops of Chlorodyne and she began to feel better. I sat with her for half an hour and she fell comfortably asleep so I went back to my room.’

  Echoing everyone’s alarm, James said, ‘Look, I’m going to send a bearer to knock up everyone who was at dinner last evening and check whether they’ve been ill in the night. Who’s left? That’s Fred, Burroughs and Rathmore. Lily, as we saw for ourselves, is unscathed.’

  He gave orders to a Scout standing in attendance.

  ‘While we’re waiting . . . is there any other aspect we haven’t covered? Any other possible cause of this sickness? I’m trying to avoid saying the dreaded word . . .’

  ‘It’s not cholera. No,’ said Grace firmly. ‘Nor yet dysentery. But you’re right. We’ve been concentrating on the internal workings. A poisonous bite perhaps from animal or reptile? As you all saw, there were no puncture marks on his body. A crack on the head will sometimes make you vomit, though perhaps not so . . . um . . . copiously. No sign of blood anywhere.’ She had already taken off Zeman’s turban and inspected his head but now she pushed her fingers gently into the thick black hair and palpated the skull inch by inch. With her fingers just beyond the right temple she stopped. She moved them slowly over the interesting patch again and sighed. ‘There it is! Nearly missed it. There’s an indentation. Three inches long and dead straight. Would you like to feel this, Iskander?’

  He nodded and allowed her to guide his finger to the spot. He nodded again. ‘As you say,’ he confirmed.

  The tension in the room was growing. The Afghan soldiers muttered to each other.

  ‘A crack on the head! That’s all we need!’ Joe thought desperately. ‘The Amir’s bloody cousin, son of the local Afridi bad boy, killed in suspicious circumstances while he’s under James’s roof, protected by the shield of melmastia. Killed by one of us! We’ll never get out of this alive! Grace, couldn’t you have kept your mouth shut?’

  But Grace now had the bit between her teeth, the complete professional, absorbed in her task and, watched intently, she was busily shaving away the hair from the suspected wound. ‘There!’ she announced with satisfaction. ‘No wonder I didn’t spot it. No bleeding, you see, and very little distortion.’

  ‘It’s very straight,’ Iskander commented, his eyes watchful like a stalking cat.

  ‘Yes, isn’t it?’ said Grace apparently unconcerned. ‘As the skin has not been penetrated to any depth it was obviously not a blow from a talwar or sharp blade of any kind. The skull has not been crushed so it’s not a rifle butt or any of the blunt offensive weapons I expect you come across every day in your work, Commander.’

  Joe caught the edge of something in Grace’s tone. She was appealing to him in some way. ‘The poor old girl’s probably feeling the strain of all this, though she hides it well,’ he thought. ‘It’s been a one woman show so far and she’s done it beautifully but she needs some help.’

  ‘You’re right, Doctor. Not the blow of someone attempting to kill him, you’d say. Just one blow and such an unlikely wound formation,’ he said. ‘In my experience of head wounds battering occurs. You find several blows on different parts of the skull delivered in uncontrollable rage or to make absolutely certain. And there are no defensive wounds visible, are there? I mean injuries to the hands and arms which a victim receives in his attempts to ward off the attack.’ He looked again carefully at Zeman’s hands and lower arms. ‘No scratches. Not even a broken nail.’ And then, ‘Good Lord! I know what this is! Iskander – Zeman was lying slightly on one side when we found him, wasn’t he? Which side? Do you remember?’

  Iskander was ahead of him and broke in, ‘It was the right side. Like this.’ He demonstrated the position. ‘And Zeman’s head was resting across the step . . . like this. Are you saying, Sandilands, that he collapsed on the stairs and cracked his head on the straight edge? They are stone, those steps, are they not?’

  ‘They are, and very sharp-edged! I barked my shin on one while we were carrying the body around earlier. There you are!’ He rolled up his trouser leg and revealed a livid bruise across his shin. ‘Same sort of injury.’

  ‘Mmm . . . that has to be speculation though. Let’s take a closer look, shall we?’ said Grace.

  Wretched woman! Did she never know when to stop? Joe wondered.

  Taking a magnifying glass from her kit she peered over the wound, grunted, smiled with grim satisfaction, reached for a pair of tweezers and plucked out something invisible to everyone standing by.

  Iskander knew what was required of him.

  ‘They’re doing a bloody double act,’ Joe thought. ‘What is going on?’

  Iskander took the magnifying glass and held it over the end of the tweezers. He breathed out a gusty sigh. Of relief?

  ‘A flake of white stone,’ he announced solemnly.

  The Afghanis queued up to examine it in turn, each sighing and nodding.

  ‘So,’ said Iskander with authority, ‘we are evidently looking at a death by natural causes. Zeman eats something infected at supper, leaves it late before he attempts to seek help, dies on the stairs and hits his head as he falls.’

  One of the other Afghanis said something hesitantly and Iskander nodded gravely. ‘My friend is asking, Dr Holbrook, what are the possibilities that Zeman was poisoned? Poisoned deliberately?’

  Again in two languages Grace began, ‘It is certainly possible. Even likely. For this reason we must gather together all who were at the evening meal and find whether anyone else has been affected. We must establish the course of the meal, exactly what he ate and drank. James, could we meet at once in the library? No – back in the durbar hall – it may help people to remember more clearly. It would be a good idea to have last night’s kitchen staff standing by in case we need to speak to them. And, Iskander, I would like your officers to be present at our deliberations.’

  James gave instructions to his men, who hurried off. ‘I’ve said – in the durbar hall in ten minutes. Hope that’s all right?’

  The hall when they assembled was clean and bright with no sign of the previous night’s party. Joe and James dragged a rug into the middle of the floor and, as the other six people arrived, directed them to sit where they had been the night before.

  News of the death of Zeman had spread. Fred Moore-Simpson slipped into his place next to Iskander, briefly placing a comforting arm around his shoulder and murmuring, ‘Awfully sorry to hear what’s happened. Dreadful, simply dreadful! He was a fine man. Let me know if there’s anything – anything – I can do.’

  Rathmore came in looking, Joe thought, shaken and apprehensive. Joe was automatically noting everyone’s appearance, not quite certain himself what he was looking for but taking in details any of which might at some later point need to be dredged from his unconscious. And there was something different about Rathmore besides his loss of cockiness. He was walking unsteadily. Yes, definitely favouring his right foot. Hardly able to meet Iskander’s eye, ‘James, Iskander,’ he said with a nod to each. ‘Shocking bad news. Food poisoning is what I h
ear? Hasn’t affected me, I’m pleased to say. Is that what you wanted to know?’ He sat down when invited to do so on the right of Iskander as before.

  Pale and exhausted, Edwin Burroughs was next to arrive. He merely nodded and took his seat. Lily, arm in arm with Betty, was the last to come down. With a cry of concern, James hurried to lower Betty on to her cushion. Betty looked miserable, white and pinched, and she twisted a handkerchief in her hands in agitation. The three Afghani officers ranged themselves around the room, an ominous presence.

  ‘Well,’ said Burroughs, finding his voice, ‘is someone going to tell us why we’re here? Isn’t this where the chap from Scotland Yard tells us we’re all under arrest?’

  ‘Edwin,’ said Grace patiently, ‘no one is accusing anyone of anything. We think Zeman died of natural causes, probably food poisoning. We have gathered here to try to establish what exactly it was that killed him.’

  ‘And we may as well start with you, Burroughs,’ said Joe. ‘You were ill in the night, I believe?’

  ‘This is embarrassing,’ snapped Burroughs, ‘and I can’t imagine how you know that or why you think it’s any business of yours to question me in public about my health but, if you must know, I have an ulcer – an ulcer which responds badly to certain types of food. It was particularly lively last night and I slept badly. I had no unusual symptoms.’

  ‘Can you tell us which of the dishes you ate? For elimination purposes.’

  Burroughs looked a little put out and then replied. ‘Every dish except the curries. And I drank three glasses of champagne and one of the pink stuff – what was it? Pomegranate? If you say so.’

  ‘And the bismuth tablet,’ said Lily sharply. ‘Don’t forget that! Zeman had one too. You gave it to him.’

  ‘What was that? Madam! What can you possibly be implying?’

  ‘Joe, please.’ Betty’s voice, subdued but firm, cut into a potential clash. ‘I think we can cut this short. I’ve worked it out. It was the pheasant. The question remains, of course, as to how the pheasant was polluted – poisoned – infected – call it what you will. But the pheasant, I think, is the villain. The very thought of it makes me feel sick again!’

  She pressed her handkerchief to her lips as she finished and anxiously Lily scrambled up to fetch a glass of water. Betty took some sips and resumed. ‘Zeman and I were the only ones to try Lily’s pheasant. Do you remember it appeared late in the meal when most people had eaten quite enough? I think I remember Zeman ate quite a lot.’ She looked to Iskander for confirmation. He nodded. ‘And I ate only a little. I was ill in the night as Grace may have told you.’ She raised huge eyes to Joe and said, ‘Do you think the meat was infected or did someone deliberately set out to poison Zeman? Or me? Us? All of us or someone in particular?’

  ‘No one,’ said Joe with more firmness that he felt. ‘It’s my opinion that this was a tragic accident. Think about it – no one could have predicted which of us if anyone was going to eat the pheasant (if that is indeed the culprit). The dish was simply presented and offered to everyone around the table. It was pure chance that Zeman and you, Betty, tasted it. Far more likely, in fact, to have been Lily – she shot the thing after all and we all think of it as “Lily’s pheasant”. All the dishes were available to be chosen in any quantity by anyone. It would be impossible to select a particular victim at such a meal. A calculated attempt to kill any one or all of us would have led to all the dishes or a substantial number of them being poisoned. That did not happen. We’ll proceed with the recording of each diner’s choice of dishes for the sake of form and thoroughness but I agree with you, Betty – I expect we’ll come down to the pheasant as the common denominator. And then, I think, it will be time to speak to the cooks.’

  After ten minutes of queasy reminiscence all were agreed that the pheasant was at fault and the three Pathan cooks who were responsible for the feast were summoned. They came smartly in, Scouts uniform, stiff-backed, proud and not at all intimidated by the unusual assembly of guests and Afghanis. They agreed amongst themselves that the chief cook, Abdullah, would speak for all and James proceeded to interview him in Pushtu, translating as he went.

  Abdullah pronounced himself overwhelmed with grief and rage to hear what had happened and hotly denied that there could be any abnormality of any kind in the food he had served. He demanded to know on what previous occasion anyone at the fort had suffered from eating dishes prepared by his staff. When James hurried to say, ‘Never, Abdullah, never,’ he continued. He asked to be allowed to send to the kitchens to seek for any remaining part of the pheasant so that he might eat it himself in front of them all to demonstrate that all was well with it. He had personally tasted the sauce.

  ‘And very good it was too, Abdullah,’ Betty interrupted. ‘I meant to congratulate you on it.’

  A messenger was sent to the kitchens to hunt for any vestige of the suspect bird while Abdullah treated them to a list of every ingredient in the pheasant dish and the manner of concocting the sauce.

  ‘You say you tasted the sauce, Abdullah,’ Joe confirmed, ‘but I wonder if you actually ate any of the meat from the bird?’

  ‘Ah, no, sir. The bird, wonderful specimen though it was,’ said Abdullah with a polite bow to Lily, ‘was very largely unusable. Such was the accuracy of the marksmanship which laid it low, there was little undamaged flesh on the carcass which I could put into my dish. You will understand, sirs, ladies, that with wild game birds such as the golden pheasant only the breast meat is usually cooked, the remainder being too tough to be pleasant eating. And even the breast meat requires long and careful cooking which is why it was later than the other dishes in being brought to table.’

  News was brought from the kitchens that the pheasant dish and the carcass had both been disposed of. ‘Thought as much,’ said James. ‘Abdullah keeps his staff up to the mark and their cleanliness and efficiency are legendary. Hot climate, you know – can’t take chances.’

  Grace, who had been listening intently to all that was said, now interrupted, her fluttering hands revealing her agitation. ‘James! Iskander! This has nothing to do with kitchen management. I think I understand what’s happened. It should have occurred to me earlier! How could I have missed this? Well, I know how I could have missed it – it’s jolly unusual! Quite extraordinary! Fascinating in fact! I’ve known about it for years but I never thought I’d see a case! Oh, I’m sorry, Iskander – I’m letting my professional curiosity and surprise run away with me. Let me say again, I’m very conscious that we’re discussing the tragic death of your friend but I think you – we all – will be gratified and relieved to hear that there is no mystery here. I think it very likely that Zeman died of andromedotoxin!’

  Seeing puzzled faces all around, Grace went on eagerly, ‘Andromedotoxin! It’s very rare. I’ve never seen an example before though I’ve heard and read of it. Tell me, Iskander – you would know – does a plant called the mountain laurel grow in these parts?’

  Iskander listened to her description of the mountain laurel and nodded, giving the Pushtu name for the plant. James also murmured in agreement.

  ‘There! We have it then! The pheasant, partridge too, I believe, has the habit of feeding on mountain laurel which produces high levels of the poison andromedotoxin in its flesh. Anyone eating the pheasant will be, unawares, ingesting the poison.’

  ‘What are the symptoms of this poison, Grace?’ asked Joe.

  ‘Nausea, vomiting, dizziness and loss of balance.’

  There was silence as all absorbed the evidence and finally Joe spoke, catching the eye of everyone at the gathering. ‘Would anyone, then, be inclined to disagree with the verdict, if this were a coroner’s court, of accidental death due to food poisoning occasioned by the consumption of an infected bird?’ Joe summed up.

  Everyone looked at everyone else and all looked finally at Iskander. With dignity and taking his time, ‘On the evidence we have,’ he said carefully, ‘I think that is the conclusion we would all reach. A
desperately sad occurrence but in no way sinister, an occurrence which none of us could have foreseen or prevented which took the life of my dear kinsman Zeman and very nearly the life of the Commandant’s wife.’ He turned to Betty and bowed graciously. ‘We must praise Allah that Mrs Lindsay survived and, indeed, that not more of us died.’

  Everyone was nodding and murmuring in agreement and looking forward to escaping from the threatening atmosphere of the enquiry when there was a sudden commotion outside and a havildar stepped into the room. He addressed James who, puzzled and concerned, translated for the rest of the company. ‘We have at the door the poultryman, Achmed. He insists on presenting himself to the Commandant to give information. Shall we . . .?’

  ‘Oh, good Lord, whatever next?’ spluttered Burroughs in exasperation. ‘Does your laundryman have a view? Are we to hear the beekeeper’s suspicions?’

  ‘Send him in,’ said James firmly.

  An agitated Achmed, flushed and quivering with excitement and in his dirty working clothes, had obviously run straight in from the farm. On receiving a nod from James he started his story in a flood of Pushtu. Stopping him for a moment after the first few sentences to translate, James’s face grew grim.

  ‘What’s he saying?’ Lily spoke for them all.

  ‘He’s telling us that the pheasant was poisoned. Arsenic. He’s saying it was arsenic.’

  Chapter Seven

  The Afghanis, who had followed every word, became even more alert at the mention of poison and began to exchange looks. Arsenic was well known to the Afghani aristocracy. ‘Inheritance powder’ was how they referred to it colloquially and its regular use kept a phalanx of food tasters in constant employ at the palace.

  ‘Go on, Achmed, finish your story,’ said James and the man, not at all overcome to find himself the centre of such concentrated attention, launched into the next part of his account. A dramatic raconteur, as with all his countrymen, he made the most of his evidence. James heard him all the way through to the end before translating.