A more sinister thought occurred to him. Zeman was of the royal blood and, all would agree, a charismatic figure. There might well be a faction at court who preferred Zeman’s style to that of the Amir Amanullah. If Amanullah had found out it would have made good sense for him to engage a trusted lieutenant and someone close to Zeman to dispose of him discreetly, well away from the Amir’s sphere of influence. If his rival were to die of natural causes under the unbiased eye of the Raj that would be nothing but good news for Amanullah. And doubtless Iskander would have his reward when he returned home. Joe knew he ought to be sharing these thoughts and theories, collecting information from James. But there was something in James’s behaviour since the discovery of the body that Joe was not entirely comfortable with. His friend to whom he would entrust – and indeed in the past had entrusted – his life seemed, in some unseizable way, to have taken a step back from him. Joe decided to leave James out of his calculations and, meantime, Lily was filling the gap remarkably well. And pacing along with his unspoken thoughts apparently.
‘And why wait do it here in the fort? Is that significant, Joe?’ she asked him.
‘I think so. Yes. There are nine impeccable Western witnesses, some of them decidedly important and well-regarded people falling over themselves to prove he had nothing to do with it, that the death was entirely natural and unavoidable. Because the suspicion that Zeman had been killed by anyone while under the protection of James and through him the British Army could well lead to conflagration. We couldn’t even accuse Iskander if we were certain he’d done it – it would be a frightful insult to the Amir.’
‘What would he do about it?’
‘At the worst, he would do what Amirs have done before. Declare a jehad – a holy war – against the British. They’ve done it on much slighter provocation. He would rouse the tribes on this side of the frontier to join his Afghani forces, he might even call on a little Russian support. They’re already supplying him with bomber planes. The Scouts you see manning this fort are all related to the tribesmen in the hills; they are Afridi, Khyberee, Mahsud, Wazir, Khattack, and though they are very loyal and very brave – best fighters in the world perhaps – they are also Muslim and the strength of their faith might well override any army loyalty. Every village has a Mullah holding the Koran in one hand and a drawn sword in the other! Every fort along the frontier could fall to a concerted attack from without and betrayal from within.’
‘The frontier in flames?’ said Lily, remembering a phrase she had heard on so many lips in Simla.
‘The frontier?’ Joe frowned. ‘No, worse than that – the frontier today, the Punjab tomorrow and the rest of India would soon follow, Lily.’
‘There’s only one thing to do, Joe. Pull ’em in and give ’em all the treatment! Sweat ’em until someone coughs!’
‘Lily, what have you been reading? Dime novels? No, I can’t do that. So long as we can keep up the pretence of “natural causes” and all are content with that, the fuse remains unlit. If I start stirring about, expressing or implying doubts, then we’re lost. You too, Miss Coblenz! You must behave entirely naturally. Don’t go around searching rooms and looking sideways at people.’
‘Not even Iskander?’ she asked innocently. ‘Here, take a look! He’s coming back in.’
‘Right, let’s go and meet him, shall we? Ask politely if there’s anything we can do . . . see if we can establish what his plans are for the rest of the day.’
An extraordinary change had come over Iskander, Joe decided. He appeared to have taken over not only Zeman’s commanding role but elements of his personality too. Grave, as befitted one who had just lost his friend and countryman, he was no longer a silent and menacing presence but easy, responsive and prepared to answer questions. Yes, there was something they could do, he said. He needed to write up a report on last night’s unfortunate occurrence, perhaps Joe could point him towards a supply of writing paper? They walked with him to the library where Joe found and laid out sheets of the fort’s headed writing paper, pens, blotters and all he could possibly need.
‘The report will take some time,’ said Iskander, ‘probably the whole of the rest of the morning as I shall write it out in two languages. This afternoon I have arranged for my men to bury Zeman. There is, Commander Lindsay tells me, a small Muslim burial ground between here and the river, the remains, I understand, of the village which was razed to the ground to make way for the building of this fort. It will be entirely suitable to lay him to rest there. I think we must put off until tomorrow our return with Dr Holbrook to Kabul. Perhaps you would be so good, Sandilands, as to inform her of our change in plan and ask her to be ready to move off immediately after breakfast?’
Joe murmured his readiness to do this. Lily, obviously hunting for some way of establishing contact with him and finding nothing better said, ‘Tea? I’ll have some tea sent to you, Iskander.’
To Joe’s surprise he turned to her and gave her a smile full of grace and humour. ‘You are kindness itself, Miss Coblenz. I should be very grateful for tea.’
Iskander was grateful for tea three times in as many hours and all delivered personally to the library by Lily.
‘What are you up to, Lily?’ Joe asked impatiently, finding her coming for the third time from the library.
‘Just keeping an eye on suspect number one,’ she said. ‘It’s all right, Joe. He’s just doing what he said he would do. It’s taking a long time and there’s a lot of pen chewing going on. But I think I was pretty helpful. You do spell “autopsy” with an “s”, don’t you?’
She continued to keep him under her eye during the afternoon but from the distance of the wall of the fort. Joe joined her to watch the funeral unobtrusively. With distaste his eye took in the bleak Islamic cemetery, rocky and forbidding on a flat plain between two folds of unrelenting hillside, perpetually shaped and honed by the endless, searing wind. An empty plain covered with forgotten memorial stones on end. Memorial stones of all ages, some new, some hundreds of years old, some straight and true, others undermined by the wind and leaning drunkenly.
‘What a place to await eternity!’ thought Joe and his mind fled to England, to peaceful and ordered headstones, soft, dark earth, here and there a self-sown blossom tree, healing rain and caressive wind. To a Surrey churchyard: ‘The Rev. Simon Graham, who departed this life . . .’ ‘Dora, beloved wife of the above, who fell asleep . . .’ ‘Benjamin Elliott, aged six months, asleep in the arms of Jesus . . .’ According to legend they waited in joyful hope for their resurrection but who, in this horrible place, would wait in joyful hope – or hope of any sort? He looked at the shallow grave prepared for Zeman and remembered the style of that subtle and perhaps even romantic figure and, for a moment, Joe grieved for him. ‘I’d sooner be working with him than consigning him to this bleak and unforgiving stone yard!’
He cheered himself with the thought that warriors of Zeman’s religion were guaranteed eternal felicity in the arms of timeless houris and hoped it might be true. He said a silent prayer to any god who was listening and noticed that Lily also, head bent, was lost in thought or prayer.
Following the funeral, a very brief affair, the Afghanis returned and to Joe’s surprise Iskander approached James with the suggestion that some of his off-duty Scouts might be persuaded to teach the game of cricket to his men.
‘Of course,’ James replied. ‘There is in fact a game scheduled for this afternoon for your entertainment but I had wondered whether to cancel it in view of the sad event of last night. Your men are very welcome to watch and get the hang of the game and afterwards I’m sure the Scouts would be delighted to coach your chaps. That is if they are not too downcast by the death of their commander. I would quite understand if you thought they might prefer to spend the afternoon in quiet thought and contemplation.’
Iskander raised a quizzical eyebrow. ‘These are handpicked warriors as I’m sure you have noticed – a corps d’élite. They do not sit about quietly contemplating th
e sudden death of their commander. If they had some new activity, a competitive game to master, I think it would take their minds off the present sadness. And never forget, Major, that funeral games have a very long tradition! When our ancestor, Alexander the Great, passed through these hills two thousand years ago, his Greek soldiers would have done exactly the same to honour the dead.’
Joe was both impressed and amused by Iskander’s practical approach to leadership and settled down on the walls with Lily to watch the entertainment. They were joined by Eddy Fraser.
‘Not playing, Eddy?’ Joe enquired and Eddy held up a bandaged hand.
‘Stopped a lustful on-drive at short leg,’ he replied. ‘Are you interested in cricket, Miss Coblenz?’
‘I don’t know anything about it,’ said Lily. ‘Never watched it in my life, though I have a dim memory that it has to do with the winning of the Battle of Waterloo – or have I got it wrong?’
‘It’s taken very seriously in these parts,’ said Eddy, not at all taken in by her sly humour. ‘We recruit from the Afridi and the Mahsuds who do most things in friendly, well fairly friendly, rivalry and here they are confronting each other on the cricket field. I would have cancelled this but James’s orders are “business as usual”. It generates a great deal of heat between the two tribes.’
‘Here we are,’ said Joe, ‘in the middle of nowhere and two cricket teams turn out who might be playing in England to all appearances!’
‘Oh, yes,’ said Eddy. ‘This is serious stuff! Everybody in whites, everybody in cricket boots, stripy silk scarves round their waists! We have a little recreation fund which we milked to provide everybody with the appropriate kit. If you get into the eleven, you get the clothes to go with it. Bobby Carstairs – there he is – captains one side and Mike Burgoyne the other. I play when I can, so does James. I made forty last week but the men are developing at such a pace that I’m far from confident of my place in the side.’
‘I’m shaking with excitement,’ said Lily, drily. ‘Can’t you see? But you’ll have to explain to me what’s happening. It’s kind of like baseball, I expect, but I don’t know anything about baseball either.’
‘No reason why you should,’ said Eddy. ‘Both English games.’
‘My!’ said Lily. ‘Both English games! I don’t believe anybody in the States knows that.’
‘Probably wouldn’t believe you if you told them,’ said Eddy.
A Pathan and a Scouts officer tossed a coin together and took opposite ends as umpires. The opening pair made their way to the crease and the game began.
‘If I shut my eyes,’ Joe thought, ‘this could almost be any English village green on a Sunday afternoon. If I open my eyes, on the other hand, what do I see? A pitiless blue sky, sun shining down that would fry an egg, the boundary line packed with vociferous turbaned figures, wild applause and even a blast on the bagpipes after every ball!’
With shrill applause in which Lily joined, the game wound its way onwards. The Afridis were all out for ninety-eight and Bobby Carstairs hit a winning six amid boos and hisses from half the spectators and cheers from the other half. The Afghanis invaded the pitch. They’d evidently decided amongst themselves to take a ball each and pass the bat from hand to hand with the applause and encouragement of the watching Scouts.
‘They are damned odd,’ said Eddy. ‘Just watching them you’d say – natural cricketers. They’ve been doing this for all of ten minutes and they’re showing more skill than your average county side!’
‘Politically,’ said Joe, ‘it wouldn’t be a bad idea if they carried this back to Kabul but I’m not sure that Afghans would qualify either by birth or residence to play for All India.’
‘Oh, I expect we could fiddle our way round that. Fiddle your way round anything if you want to.’ And Eddy shouted encouragement in Pushtu to the perspiring Afghan batsmen as they stood queuing to play. ‘Of course, the game could have been invented for these chaps. Brilliant hand and eye co-ordination but something else as well – patience and planning. They’ll wait for days, months, years even to get something right. Clever tacticians. I wonder what we’ve started?’
‘There’s Iskander lining up at the wicket. Obviously, he’s played the game before,’ said Joe as a mighty sweep of the bat sent the ball winging over the boundary to deafening applause from his men.
They went down together to welcome in the players. Lily, Joe noticed, went straight to Iskander to congratulate him on his men’s showing and his own sparkling performance.
‘Good Lord! The girl thinks she’s at some awful American shindig! Handing out the rosettes and the silver cup.’ The disapproving drawl came from Edwin Burroughs. ‘Can’t you keep that filly on a tighter rein, Sandilands? She’s doing her kind no credit, you know. She’s doing us no credit.’
Joe felt it would have taken up an hour of his time to challenge Burroughs’ views. Instead he hurried forward to add his own warm comments on the game. Though Iskander and Lily were standing a good four feet away from each other Joe had, and not for the first time, the uncomfortable feeling that if he walked between them he would trip on some unseen connecting thread. Perhaps he ought to ask her to take her suspect surveillance a little less seriously? Iskander, Joe thought, was for the moment treating her interest as sympathetic concern and natural high spirits but if she were not more careful he might become suspicious.
‘Hey! Why don’t you all stay another day?’ she was saying. ‘Then your men could take on the Scouts and have a proper game. That would be good, Joe, wouldn’t it?’
‘Lily, I really don’t think it’s up to us to rearrange the Amir’s timetable for him,’ Joe started to say but to his surprise he was interrupted by Iskander.
‘That is a very tempting suggestion, Miss Coblenz! Nothing would please my men more than to give a thrashing to the Scouts. If Major Lindsay were willing to extend his already generous hospitality for a further day it would delight us all. Our schedule is not so tight that we would be unable to stay for one more day. I will speak to Commander Lindsay.’
The blossoming of Iskander, as Joe thought of the change that had come over the young man since the loss of his commanding officer, continued through the day. Over the dinner table he entertained everyone with stories of the frontier and answered questions, however silly, on the Pathan way of life with patience and humour. Joe was intrigued to find that he had been educated not in England as had Zeman Khan but at the college in Peshawar. An orphan from an early age, he belonged to the same clan as Zeman and the two boys had been childhood friends. Joe could only begin to guess at the raw sorrow that he must be feeling at the loss of his friend. Unless, of course, he was himself responsible for Zeman’s death. The thought would not go away. If James had died Joe wondered if he would have been able to face a dinner party and do more than hold his own in a foreign language. He found his respect for Iskander continued to grow.
But, equally, his concern for Lily, with her obvious interest in the man, grew. At the end of the meal when all got up to leave the table Joe saw Lord Rathmore hurry to position himself by the door. As Lily passed in front of him he bent his head and whispered something to her which was evidently not to her liking. Before Lily had a chance to reply, Iskander had stepped between them and engaged Rathmore in conversation, allowing Lily to go on her way, evading Rathmore’s detaining arm. Protective? Proprietorial? Or something more sinister? The gesture disturbed Joe.
As Joe caught up with his charge he asked, ‘All well, Lily?’
She turned to him with shining eyes. ‘All’s very well, Joe. Apart from the appalling Rathmore. Did you see him just now? Some men just don’t know when to give up!’
‘What do you mean? What was he saying to you?’
‘Some nonsense about meeting me later this evening. I couldn’t make sense of what he was saying. Trying for another date, I suppose! Man’s loco!’
‘Lily, I don’t want to have to bed down outside your room every night but if it comes to that you k
now I will! If I have the slightest suspicion that your, er, peace of mind is being threatened by anyone . . . anyone . . . I shall take steps.’
‘Joe, thanks for the offer but my, er, peace of mind is quite robust enough to take care of itself,’ she said and darted ahead in the direction of the guest wing.
Joe was overtaken by James and they walked along together, discussing the evening. As they went through the front door, Joe paused. Something had changed. Looking about he noticed that Minto’s kennel had disappeared.
‘What have you done with Minto?’ he asked.
‘I’m sorry to say I’ve had to remove him lock, stock and kennel up to our room. I had two complaints this morning, complaints on the grounds of hygiene and noise. The first was from Burroughs. He’s convinced the dog is suffering from some sort of Indian dog disease – rabies or some such – and is afraid he’ll pass it on to him. He’s of the opinion that this is what killed Zeman and can’t understand why Grace is not taking his opinion seriously.’
‘And the second?’
‘Lord Rathmore. Claims the dog rushes out and makes a noise every time he walks by his kennel and this is a serious restriction on Rathmore’s freedom of movement. Freedom of movement! Why he wants to creep around unobserved I’ve no idea. Not the sort of chap who would make off with the regimental silver in the night, is he?’
‘Just the sort of chap! Minto’s a good judge of character.’
‘Well, I’m not happy with the new arrangements I can tell you! What we’ve got up there now is a ménage à trois – in which I come a bad troisième.’
A light tap on his door woke Joe at dawn the next day. The orderly who stood there was obviously in the grip of a barely contained excitement. His message was that Joe should go down to the main gates at once where he would find James. ‘There is trouble, sahib,’ he added. ‘Much, much trouble!’
The Damascened Blade Page 12
