The Damascened Blade

by Barbara Cleverly

  Chapter Nine

  James, in the light of flares, was calling out orders to a group of men. ‘Trackers! Limited reconnaissance. Out for five minutes then return and report initial findings. Eddy – have them picketed, will you? This could be a trap and none of my men are walking into it unprotected. And, Eddy, prepare to take out a full gasht. Muster here in thirty minutes. Now where are the second watch sentries? Line them up. Picket gate sentries? Well, look harder and further! Joe!’ He walked over to Joe, grim, alert, every inch the commanding officer.

  ‘What the hell’s going on, James?’

  ‘The Afghanis have disappeared. Decamped in the night. No idea yet why, when or how. But we soon will have. Come and hear the sentries with me, will you?’

  Translating for Joe he gave the gist of the men’s story. ‘No trouble in the night on any of the watches. The bloke on the 10 p.m. to 2 a.m. is the most interesting. Apparently the Afghanis were chattering and even singing round their fires until late in the night. All sounds ceased at 1 a.m. but the fires continued to burn. He didn’t hear thirty-five horses clattering off in the night. We’ll go out and have a look, shall we? But, just for once, arm yourself, will you?’

  James and Joe walked, revolver in hand, through the gates and round the corner of the fort until they reached the football field encampment. Fires were collapsing into piles of white ash and embers in front of tents which looked as though they still housed sleeping soldiers. A glance up at the fortifications told Joe that they were being covered from every angle by watchful riflemen as they made their way around the encampment.

  ‘I can’t see how thirty-five horses and thirty-one men and two pack mules could have got away without someone being aware of it,’ said Joe.

  ‘You don’t know Pathans,’ said James. ‘They can fade into the night without a sound. This is how I think they did it. Look.’ He pointed to the beginnings of a trail of horses’ hooves only just becoming visible in the strengthening light, heading towards the tarmacked road to the Khyber. ‘See, it’s one set of hooves overlying another, not spread out on a wide front. I think a few men made a racket to cover the departure of the rest of the troop who must have set off one at a time, let’s say at one-minute intervals, so that all there ever was to hear was a single horse at any time and never a horde of thirty-five. They could have cleared the camp in under an hour. I’ve sent trackers to make a preliminary survey and we’ll hear what they have to say in a minute or two.’

  They wandered around looking into abandoned tents and finding no remains of the Afghans. Items borrowed from the fort had been meticulously cleaned and left behind.

  ‘Why? Why, James? Iskander dropped no hint of this. He led us to believe he was intending to stay another day. What’s gone wrong?’

  ‘We don’t know yet but you can be sure that there can be nothing reassuring about this way of leaving. It’s against all the rules of hospitality. It’s against all I’d come to think of Iskander in fact. I’m worried, Joe.’

  The returning trackers reported as James had feared that the single line of hooves continued to move alongside the tarmacked road, taking the soft ground to one side of it, and, as far as they had been able to establish, it went on up towards the Khyber. Back to Afghanistan.

  ‘Grace?’ said Joe. ‘Is Grace still aboard or have they taken her with them?’

  ‘Still here. And as puzzled as we are. They told her nothing about this.’

  ‘I don’t suppose Iskander’s been left behind by any chance?’ said Joe uneasily. ‘They haven’t gone off without him as well, have they? I mean, how did he get out of the fort?’

  ‘I checked his room quickly on the way down when the alarm was raised. Not there. Bed not been slept in. And it wouldn’t be difficult for someone agile to shin over the wall and down when the sentry’s back was turned. This damn fort’s designed to keep people out, not necessarily in. But if my guess is right he used a much simpler method.’

  ‘The picket gate?’

  ‘That’s right. The duty sentries have disappeared. Absconded, taking their rifles with them. They were both Afridis. Yes, Iskander’s tribe.’

  Joe kicked at a glowing log angrily. ‘All that fraternization at the cricket match yesterday! Plenty of opportunity to get alongside long-lost kinsmen, ask a few questions, persuade the right pair to desert.’

  ‘But why, Joe? Why?’

  ‘Let’s go back to his room. See if there’s anything there in the way of a clue to this behaviour.’

  The room showed no sign of occupation. The bed was unruffled, the rugs straight, the equipment in order.

  ‘Look! There!’ said Joe, pointing to the bedside table. There was an envelope addressed to Commander Lindsay in English and what he guessed to be Urdu. ‘I know what this is going to say,’ said Joe nervously as James opened it. ‘It’s going to say, “Dear Mother, Army’s a bugger. Sell the pig and buy me out.”’ He peered anxiously over James’s shoulder and they read the letter together.

  To Major James Lindsay, Commandant, Fort Gor Khatri.

  April 20 1922.

  From Muhammed Iskander Khan, Captain, Service of HM the Amir of Afghanistan.

  Enclosed please find copies of the report on the death of my kinsman and commanding officer, Major Zeman Khan, which occurred at the fort of Gor Khatri at a time uncertain in the early hours of the morning on the 20th instant.

  It is with regret that I am unable to accept the finding of death by natural causes as established by the medical examination and subsequent deliberations, flawed, as it is, by inconsistencies. I believe my comrade to have been murdered by person or persons unknown.

  Closely bound by ties of blood to my kinsman Zeman Khan, you will understand, Major Lindsay, that I am bound to avenge his death. If it were known who had killed Major Zeman Khan I would already have taken steps to avenge him. The British Army would then seek reprisals against me and my men and His Majesty the Amir would, in turn, become involved in an escalating spiral of bloody reprisal.

  I believe you, Major Lindsay, to be, like me, a civilized man who would prefer to avoid senseless bloodshed and I offer you a solution to our problem. Firstly, the conclusion of the medical examination must be set aside and secondly, the identity of the person guilty of Major Zeman Khan’s death must be discovered. The guilty man must be charged and judged by you. You have lived and worked and fought with our people; you understand melmastia; you will understand that my kinsman was a guest in the fort and under your protection. The murderer is thus doubly guilty. He must be executed and by a firing squad of British soldiers before the gates of the fort a week from now, at noon on the 27th of April. Badal will accordingly be satisfied. The chain of vengeance will be broken with the death at British hands of the man responsible.

  The Amir will be satisfied as will Zeman’s kin and they will not feel obliged to take further action. To ensure that you carry out the execution I have taken the precaution of removing one man from the fort as hostage. Lord Rathmore is accompanying us – unwillingly. He will be released to you when you have done your duty.

  If you fail to do your duty Lord Rathmore’s life becomes forfeit and his body will be delivered to the fort shortly after noon next Friday.

  Joe and James read this hideous document through to its conclusion without a word and, having done so, turned back to the beginning and independently read their way through it once more. It was Joe who finally broke the silence between them. ‘This,’ he said, ‘is absolute balls! Iskander’s gone barmy! Don’t you agree? Nobody in their right senses could act on this and he must be told so.’

  James sank into a chair. ‘You can’t dismiss it just like that, you know, Joe.’

  ‘I can and I do. The only problem is – how the hell do we communicate with bloody Iskander? We can’t just send a man with a chit, can we? He – by which I mean they – are over there!’ With a wide gesture he pointed to the circle of empty hills. ‘Somewhere out there.’

  ‘Well, as far as communication
s are concerned,’ said James, ‘it’s not such a problem. We send someone out with a white flag and our reply. He puts it under a stone and plants the white flag next to it and in due course you may depend someone, and we don’t have to know who, picks it up. It’s not a problem.’

  ‘Problem! said Joe. ‘It’s one bloody problem after another. Now look here, James – Iskander talks of inconsistencies. What inconsistencies? Have you any idea? You’ve got, if not an official autopsy, at least a sincere opinion expressed by a highly qualified source – Grace. I’m not prepared to just say, “Oh, dear,” and forget it. And if, for some reason, we reject Grace’s findings, we confront a more serious problem – “Who killed Cock Robin?” And how did they kill Cock Robin? “I, said the Sparrow, with my bow and arrow.” How likely is it that we are going to have a helpful sparrow step forward and tell us he did it?’

  ‘The fact remains that if we reject the autopsy, an important citizen, Afghani subject, was done to death while in my care. Iskander is perfectly correct when he says that if this fact became generally known, a blood bath would ensue which would follow all of us to the grave and beyond. I couldn’t be responsible for letting that loose. No,’ James attempted a smile, ‘in the circumstances, this is a pretty generous offer Iskander is making us. The solution he suggests would, in fact, defuse a nasty situation. There must be a victim.’

  ‘A murderer found guilty?’ asked Joe.

  ‘Yes, of course. Just that.’

  Joe looked at him in exasperation, ‘Perhaps you could tell me whom you have in mind?’

  James was silent. ‘Just leave it to me, Joe,’ he finally said.

  ‘Not sure that I can, old mate,’ said Joe, unhappy and fearful. ‘As I see it, you have two alternatives: first – and this is probably what any other commander along the line would do – is to heave poor old Achmed into the firing line. Or Abdullah, whichever is the more dispensable. I wouldn’t be surprised if that was what Iskander himself were expecting. No? Didn’t think you would, so we’re left with the second. You have a perfectly able Scotland Yard detective right here at your elbow. Make use of me! You’re running me in blinkers, James! Give me your support to investigate this shambles properly and find out if it was murder and if so who is responsible. A week would be more than enough. I don’t boast but it’s what I do for a living.’

  ‘No, Joe. Neither of your schemes is acceptable. And I refuse to discuss it any further. There is a third option and this is the only one available to me. Please take my word on that.’

  ‘Third option?’ Joe asked warily. ‘What exactly do you have in mind, James?’

  ‘There will be a victim offered up for execution at noon next Friday,’ he said, unable to meet Joe’s eye. ‘It will be me.’

  The two men contemplated each other. Joe, angry and puzzled, looked down at James, chill and haunted. ‘This,’ said Joe, ‘is madness time. I can’t for a second accept what you say and see no reason whatever to do so, for God’s sake! Do you realize what you’re doing? At the dramatic – I would even say hysterical – suggestion of Iskander Khan, you seem prepared to set all evidence that doesn’t suit him on one side!’

  He looked both anxiously and affectionately at his friend. ‘I can’t understand you, James! This isn’t like you. Unless, of course,’ he added lightly, ‘you know something I don’t . . .’ and he resumed, ‘What you should do is this – reply to Iskander Khan by whatever means recommends itself to you. A level and unflustered reply is what is called for. He speaks of “inconsistencies” – let him enumerate them. Say that if he’s not satisfied with the findings – as far as they’ve gone – the authorities here are quite ready to pick the matter up. You can mention my name if you like. We’ve been friends for years and you probably haven’t even noticed that I’m considered by some to be quite a star. Zeman had heard of me; Iskander may have heard of me. I’m sure that’s the proper way to play it. It wouldn’t be a good idea to ignore Iskander’s letter but it’s a bloody awful idea to accept this Boys Own Paper solution to the problem! See if you can get me some official status, James. Why not? Then I could deal with this as a proper police enquiry and we could, incidentally, drop the hint that as a preliminary to a measured police enquiry, we would expect the return of that damn fool Rathmore – and when you’ve got him in hand you can box his ears for having been so bloody inept as to get himself snatched! Be a man, James! You make me feel like Lady Macbeth! “Infirm of purpose, give me the dagger!”’

  ‘Dagger? What dagger? Oh, yes,’ said James miserably. ‘But it’s probably no use trying to send him a message. If he’s gone off back over the border, he’s out of earshot, so to speak. It’s my guess he wants to avoid any parlaying. He’s shot his arrow and wants no riposte. He’ll sit up there in the mountains, out of our reach, and come down to witness the execution.’ He sighed. ‘He’s got us sewn up! But I suppose we ought first to go and check on Rathmore. Iskander didn’t write this letter in the middle of the night seconds before they set off. He wrote it – and this chills the blood, Joe – yesterday morning when he was closeted in the library for three hours. He’d had a talk with his men, they’d chosen their hostage, planned this action and they put it into smooth operation hours later. I wonder how the devil they managed to get him away?’

  ‘And all that jovial bonhomie on the cricket ground was so much eyewash!’ Joe said bitterly. ‘All that chatter and joking was a blind. They were fixing the sentries using whatever pressure or inducements came to hand – I don’t know what – family ties, favours called in, gratitude of the Amir . . . And the sentries turned a blind eye or even helped with bundling poor old Rathmore out of the fort through the back gate. They had horses enough. Four spares, was it?’

  They hurried along to Rathmore’s room on the ground floor of the guest wing and looked about them. ‘Bed hasn’t been slept in,’ said James. ‘Apart from that, nothing untoward, would you say, Joe?’

  ‘All his personal effects are still here,’ said Joe, checking the wardrobe and the shelves in the bathroom. ‘Slippers under the bed so he was wearing his outdoor shoes. I don’t have Rathmore’s wardrobe by heart so I can’t say for certain what he’d got on but I can’t see here the outfit he was wearing when he arrived – wasn’t it a sort of highly tailored colonial traveller’s outfit? Khaki drill with lots of pockets and leather patches on the shoulders?’

  ‘It was. So you’re saying that after supper he comes along to his room and chooses to put on not his dressing gown but a substantial suit and his walking shoes? Odd. Almost as though he knew he was going to be snatched!’

  ‘Well, expecting to go out for a night-time walk, anyway. That’s as far as we can go on the evidence,’ said Joe carefully. He walked over to the dressing table and examined the effects laid neatly and innocently out on the top. A pair of ivory-backed hairbrushes, silver comb, a shoe horn, a flask of Trumper’s ‘Eucris’ and a leather writing case. Joe opened the writing case and looked carefully at the contents. A few letters from England and copies of outgoing letters, a small diary with nothing of importance to Joe. An entry made for seven days hence told them that Rathmore was confidently expecting to be back in Simla. Unused envelopes, a writing pad, a fountain pen and two HB pencils made up the contents. Joe examined the pen. ‘Out of ink,’ he commented. Lastly, he took out the writing pad and held it at an angle to the light.

  ‘Well, sometimes you have a bit of luck! Look, there’s something here, James,’ he said. ‘Give me your torch.’

  He shone the light at a narrow angle against the page.

  ‘What does it say – “Dear John, Pig gone. Soldier on.”?’ James managed a weak smile. ‘I see it. Indentations. Letters. From the page above. Must have been writing with one of those hard pencils for it to show through like this. Can’t make it out though. I say, is this all right? I mean, peeking at a chap’s correspondence? What’s he going to say if he ever finds out?’

  Joe ignored him and took out his magnifying glass. ‘Got it! Well, one
word at least and perhaps the most important. The first one, not surprisingly, while the pencil was at its sharpest. Look, you can just make out the heavier down strokes. And, if I’ve got it right, this word’s nearly all down strokes. And Rathmore would appear to be heavy-handed in this as in everything! Looks like L I L Y. He’s writing to Lily Coblenz! But why would he do that? He was sitting opposite her at supper, he could have said anything he wanted to say to her face.’

  ‘Not if it were clandestine in any way,’ said James. ‘Something he wouldn’t want any of us to overhear. Love letter? Oh, Lord, that’s all we need!’

  ‘Well, whatever it was, it must remain Rathmore’s secret,’ said Joe, ‘I can’t make out anything more. I wonder if the recipient of this billet doux will feel able to inform us? Let’s go and have a word with the lucky lady, shall we?’

  He was remembering the scene at the door of the dining room the previous evening, the last time he had set eyes on Rathmore. Joe tried urgently to conjure up the expression on Rathmore’s face as he spoke to Lily. He had only had time to get out a few words before Iskander placed himself between them but his face had spoken volumes. Joe had not been able to interpret the emotion in that context but, looking back, he felt it had been one of triumphant complicity directed at Lily. Complicity. Joe, with a flash of insight, began to see how Iskander might have managed his conjuring trick – the disappearance of Rathmore. But did the conjuror have an assistant? Grimly, Joe decided he had a hundred hard questions to put to Miss Coblenz.

  Their deliberations were cut short by the entry of Betty. Tense and pale, she stood for a moment, silent in the doorway. ‘Lily,’ she said. ‘I’m looking for Lily. Anyone seen her this morning? Anyone know where she is?’