The Last Kashmiri Rose

by Barbara Cleverly

  ‘Goodness! I hadn’t realised you were such a missionary!’

  ‘Missionary?’ Joe laughed. ‘I believe it’s time the police force stopped being a servant of the aristocracy and became the guardian of society and that sounds very pompous so I suppose you’re right. I am a sort of social missionary.’

  ‘You must have felt you were coming back through time being sent to Bengal?’

  ‘I’ve loved working with the Bengal Police. They’re clever, eager and effective. There’s nothing I’d like more than a squad of Sikh officers to take back to London with me! Give me twenty Naurungs! That would shake up Whitehall!’

  ‘So your time hasn’t entirely been wasted here?’

  ‘No. I suddenly found myself locked in the arms of a dusky charmer and minded never to return. I mean – you don’t pick up a timeless houri on every corner in life’s road. Make the most of your opportunities, I say,’ said Joe lightly. ‘Is there anything else I can tell you about Sandilands of Drumaulbin?’

  Nancy gave him a searching look, smiled and shook her head in uncharacteristic confusion. She kicked her pony and drew ahead, leaving Joe to watch her slender figure through narrowed and speculative eyes.

  Chapter Seventeen

  AS THEY RODE into Panikhat in the late afternoon the air grew still, the glow of the sky deepened as the sun burned its way westward and wreaths of smoke from cooking fires coiled and flattened over the native town.

  Joe looked at Nancy, flushed, sunburned and dishevelled. ‘Shall I,’ he wondered, ‘tell her that she’s got two buttons undone and the label of her blouse is sticking out? This is a little bit embarrassing, I think. Andrew might well be the nicest man I know and I sometimes think he is but – unless he’s a fool, which I think he isn’t …’

  He needn’t have worried. As they drew into the Drummond compound, a syce ran up to take the horses and a bearer hurried to Nancy with a note on a silver tray. She read it quickly and said, ‘Oh, what a shame. Andrew’s been called away to Goshapur. There’s a row brewing apparently between a landlord and some of his tenants. He won’t be back before sunset. Can I offer you a drink, Joe?’

  Joe courteously refused, limp with relief that he would not yet have to look Andrew Drummond in the eye, and started to make his way back to his bungalow. Carefully keeping to the shady side of the street, he walked on, leading Bamboo. His thoughts were interrupted by swiftly trotting hooves coming up behind him and by an authoritative female voice.

  ‘Good afternoon, Commander. Or – as formality seems to have been thrown to the winds – good afternoon, Joe.’

  Joe turned about to meet the calculating eye of Mrs Kitson-Masters. The last thing he wanted to do, having narrowly avoided an inspection by Andrew, was to find himself the subject of scrutiny by Kitty. He smiled and bowed.

  ‘Kitty!’ he said. ‘Exactly the person I most wanted to see!’

  ‘You look as though you’ve had an exhausting day,’ she said.

  ‘I have. Are you on your way home, Kitty? Good. If I may, I’ll come with you.’

  ‘Informality on informality! I will look forward to receiving you.’

  She drove on and Joe followed her round the corner, into Curzon Street and down her front drive.

  ‘Now, tell me how I can help with the investigation. At least I assume that this has to do with the investigation, though I would prefer to think you were seeking me out for the charm of my company.’

  ‘Both,’ said Joe, settling on the verandah while a jug of lemonade appeared on the table between them. ‘It seems rather an odd question but – as far as you know – did Alicia Simms-Warburton suffer from a fear of water, a fear of drowning? I mean a deep-seated, out of the ordinary fear?’

  Kitty looked at him in astonishment for a moment then replied slowly, ‘Yes, as a matter of fact, she did. A week or so before she died it was Panikhat Week … the station puts on lots of entertainments to celebrate the end of the working year before people start to go off to the hills, visitors come from other stations – you’ve just missed it this year – and that year someone had organised a regatta on the river just beyond Giles’ place. “Henley on the Hooghly” or something like that, they’d called it. The local villagers are superb boatmen. They’d provided the boats and decorated them with flowers and everyone had a wonderful time – apart from Alicia! She refused to have anything to do with it. Made rather a silly fuss, I remember. Wouldn’t put a foot in a boat. Yes, you’re right, Joe. A phobia, I think you’d call it.’

  ‘That’s exactly what I’d call it. And did Dolly Prentice suffer from a phobia and, in particular, did she have a phobia about fire? Was she frightened of fire? I mean to an unusual degree? It might be significant if she was.’

  Kitty considered for a while.

  ‘No. Sorry, Joe. She never spoke of it,’ she said at last. ‘Fire is a hazard of course and if you’ve got a thatched roof as many of us have it’s a perpetual worry. We’re all afraid of fire and nothing abnormal about that. But you’re looking for more, aren’t you? Something unreasonable? I don’t remember Dolly ever mentioning … Let me think back … Oh! Of course! Yes! The buckets! We never spoke of it though some of us did think it rather strange at the time … The corridors in Dolly’s bungalow were lined with buckets full of water, fire brooms and all that sort of thing. They even kept one behind the door in the drawing-room. Yes, that was surely extraordinary behaviour? I had thought it must have been one of Giles’ eccentricities – he has enough of those, heaven knows! – and didn’t comment. But, you know, he doesn’t have buckets of water in his new home so perhaps you’re right. Joe, why do you ask?’

  ‘Five out of five,’ said Joe grimly. Rather lamely he explained, thinking as he did so that his theories sounded somewhat absurd. But Kitty didn’t think so.

  Reflecting on this, she said, ‘That is a sinister aspect. That does argue a bad mind behind this. A sick mind. An evil mind.’ She hesitated. ‘But whose mind? Joe, the whole of Panikhat must have known at the time – about the buckets, I mean. If I can remember it twelve years on, many people would have been aware of it at the time. I haven’t been much help, have I?’

  ‘Oh, I think so,’ said Joe. ‘Dolly’s phobia places her firmly in the group of victims. Now I know that every one of the murdered memsahibs was killed, perhaps not because of, but according to, her own personal fear. It’s a common factor but it’s not the common factor I’ve been looking for. There’s something more – something appalling lurking on the fringes …’ The dark and dimly perceived jungle shapes of the morning, pacing along with the horses but remaining hidden, watchful, came back to him and he shuddered.

  ‘Joe, it’s time to go and have your bath,’ said Kitty with a softer note in her voice. ‘Then perhaps a good meal at the Club, a sound night’s sleep and you may well wake up with the answer in your head.’

  This had been the most mysterious day Joe could remember. Firstly, the magic of the ride through the forest and the indelible image of Nancy in a sea of laughing and expectant brown faces, and the unhesitating gift of herself, so sweet, so yielding, so ingenuous and fired by a primitive longing of such force that it was outside Joe’s experience. As sleep descended on him he was aroused by a thought. A thought of such complexity that, encumbered by the folds of his mosquito net, he sat up with a jerk, suddenly wide awake.

  There was something here that he didn’t quite understand. Something, perhaps, that he had understood all along but had not been able to put into words or even into logical thoughts, but he remembered the care with which Uncle George had absented himself from their night in Calcutta; he remembered the grace with which Andrew had sent them off into the forest together, his convenient absence from home on their return, and he began to think, for the first time, of the equivocal role of Andrew in the love affair which was taking place under his eyes.

  Andrew. Something struggled in his memory, trying to come to the surface. The Deputy Collector – what was the wretched man’s name? – on the
night of the dance – Harry Featherstone! – he had bumped into Joe, standing with Nancy, and had said, ‘Sorry Andrew!’ He had mistaken Joe for Andrew for the good reason that, from behind, they must look very alike. No one could confuse them when seen side by side but there was, he had to admit, a superficial resemblance. Both men were tall, broad-shouldered and of spare build. Both men had dark hair, though Andrew’s was now more grey than black. Had Nancy and her uncle seen this similarity when they had set eyes on him in the lecture theatre in Calcutta? Had they discussed it? Had they decided that he would be the perfect man to complete Nancy’s schemes? Joe decided that they would not have needed to exchange a word. But both, if his wild idea had any foundation, would have taken precisely the action they had taken.

  With a rush of anger, Joe acknowledged that he had been duped. Used. And the anger was swiftly followed by shame and embarrassment. He had assumed that Nancy had found him irresistible and, in the context of her easy-going relationship with her elderly husband, had felt herself free to enjoy an affair with an attractive and vigorous man passing through her life.

  On an impulse he kicked himself out of his mosquito net and, equipping himself with a cigarette to ward off marauding night-time mosquitoes, he made his way to his small office and with difficulty lit the kerosene lamp, reaching as he did so for his cipher book. The telegram he had in mind could not be sent from the station en clair.

  After a sweaty half-hour he had encoded and despatched the following to a colleague at the Yard.

  9291A JOHN STOP NEED TO KNOW EXTENT OF WARTIME INJURY SUSTAINED BY CAPTAIN A J DRUMMOND 23RD RAJPUTANA RIFLES 1918 STOP SANDILANDS

  It would be three o’clock in the afternoon at New Scotland Yard and Joe imagined John Moore in the middle of his day, cursing, ringing the War Office, ringing them again and wearily proceeding to encode his reply. Joe realised he probably couldn’t expect to receive this for two or three days at the best and, feverishly, he returned to bed.

  To his astonishment he awoke to find that, overnight, he had received a reply in cipher sent round to him by the Panikhat telegraph office at about five o’clock in the morning. Joe decoded it and read the short contents again and again.

  9291B WARTIME INJURIES EXTENSIVE STOP QUOTE INTESTINAL CHAOS UNQUOTE STOP RIGHT LEG MULTIPLE FRACTURES STOP MOORE

  What did ‘intestinal chaos’ mean? Very severe abdominal injuries amounting perhaps to mutilation? Unseeing, the buff telegram form in his hand, Joe stared out of the window. ‘So that’s it. There was an agenda. A design that didn’t include me! Though, in truth, I suppose, I was central to the plot, though not a party to it. God, I’ve been naive! And what do I say now? Do I challenge them? Do I say, “Nancy, you’re a scheming hussy! Jardine, you are a crafty old bastard! Andrew, you are a scandalous conniver!”? What do I do?’

  The answer came easily to his mind. ‘Nothing. You go with it. If this is what Nancy wants, this is what Nancy can have in so far as it’s up to me. Perhaps I even ought to be flattered. Of course I ought to be flattered. And when the other emotions have rolled away flattered is what I’ll feel. But for the moment, my self-esteem – my ego, as Freud would have it! – has taken a bruising … And maybe that’s no bad thing!’

  Chapter Eighteen

  HAVING HALF AN hour to kill before Nancy’s dinner party, Joe made his way over to the mess to fill his cigarette case from one of the many boxes always charged with the fat oval cigarettes bearing the regimental badge and supplied by Fribourg and Treyer of London. He found the table laid for four only; evidently all others were dining at the Manoli dinner or, like himself, with Nancy, and the dining-room was in darkness. He was greeted from the gloom by a friendly voice.

  ‘Oh, Sandilands Sahib, sir. Good evening. May I help you in any particular?’

  It was the voice of Suman Chatterjee, a Bengali babu and the regimental clerk. Also, it seemed, the mess steward, since he was seated at a table in a small office surrounded by mess chits in neat piles. Joe had met him once or twice in the mess. He liked his unswerving affability, he admired his monumental physique but, above all, he appreciated his pedantic, idiomatic and heavily accented English.

  ‘Do you ever get any time off, Babu-ji?’ he asked.

  ‘Oh, sir, this is not work! This is fascination! I like to keep everything shipshape and Bristol fashion. I like to make sure that it all adds up and here I am adding.’

  Feeling that something more than a polite interest was called for, Joe said, ‘What’s your system, Suman?’

  ‘Oh, sir, it works like this, you see: the officers sign chits daily. Oh, what bloody awful handwriting! They come to me and I enter them in a book and send out the mess bills promptly on the first of every month. My predecessor was – dear me! – a very muddled citizen. It took me the deuce of a long time to sort out the mess he had left behind but now I can tell you exactly who had what, when and how many. See – here is yourself: Sandilands J. (H). H stands for honorary member of the mess and here you see Smythe Sahib was absent. I put (Abs.) next to his name. Oh, no, this is a good system.’

  Joe admired the fluent copperplate handwriting and said sincerely, ‘Suman, do you ever wish you could use your talents more widely? You should be in government – you are a monument of neatness and clearly a genius with figures.’

  ‘I wouldn’t,’ said Suman with a big smile and a wide gesture, ‘change my job for a lackh of rupees! I am after all a member of a proud regiment and indeed I am hoping to write a regimental history. Besides, who would keep everything in apple pie order if I retired? I hear everybody from greatest to least say – oh, ten times a day – “Ask Chatterjee, he’s sure to know.” And, mostly, I do!’

  ‘How far back do the records go?’ asked Joe with no particular interest.

  ‘To 1898,’ said Suman immediately, ‘when Staverdale Sahib commanded the regiment. But in my care, for fifteen years.’

  ‘So, if you wanted to tell who’d had two glasses of port after dinner on November the 18th 1899 you could tell me?’

  ‘Not as good as that but since I have been running things, certainly!’

  ‘Let me,’ said Joe, ‘pick a date at random. What about this day, March the 17th, let’s say in 1910?’

  ‘Oh, that is no problem. That was in my time.’ He rose to his feet and, lifting portly arms with difficulty above his head, he fetched down from a high shelf a tall account book on the spine of which there was a strip of sticking plaster with ‘1908–1910’ written on it. He placed it on the table in front of Joe and began to leaf through the pages. To Joe’s fanciful imagination it seemed that from the dry pages an aura of wine-soaked corks, brandy and Trichinopoly cigars arose.

  ‘Here you are, you see,’ said Suman proudly. ‘Here we are … March … and the seventeenth. It was a Saturday. Ah. Oh. That night …You have not chosen a good night. There was hardly anybody in the mess that night. The others had all gone to some jollification. In March there are many jollifications – it is the end of the season when many memsahibs go away to the hills. And here they are, sir. Five diners that night.’

  He pushed the book over to Joe’s elbow.

  ‘Not very many but drinking quite a considerable amount, you see, sir. Oh, you could say the port was flowing that night!’

  Joe did not respond. He was looking at the mess record for the night twelve years ago when Dolly Prentice had been burned to death. Predictably Prentice’s name was not there. He had been in Calcutta. But five other men had been present.

  Their names drew his astonished gaze and fixed it on the page. He read again and muttered the list under his breath. Major Harold Carmichael, Dr Philip Forbes, Captain John Simms-Warburton, Subaltern William Somersham and, lastly, a name he did not recognise, a Subaltern Richard Templar.

  ‘Is all well, sir? May I assist you further?’ asked Suman, concerned at Joe’s long silence.

  ‘Yes. Oh, please. Help me to understand the shorthand, will you? This says “Carmichael 5-p”?’

  ‘That wou
ld be five glasses of port, sir. And here we have Forbes Doctor Sahib three glasses of port and 1-b that is one glass of brandy. Somersham Sahib, 4-p, that is four glasses of port and Simms-Warburton Sahib three glasses of port and one of c.b. – cherry brandy.’

  ‘It must have been quite a jolly evening,’ said Joe.

  ‘Oh yes, sir, very boozy, to be sure!’

  ‘And here, what does (A) stand for?’

  ‘Ah, yes, that would be the young sahib Templar, sir. It stands for “attached”. I remember him well. He was spending some time on attachment here before being gazetted and going off to join his regiment on the frontier. Very nice young gentleman, sir, and, as you see, not at all boozy – just two glasses of port.’

  ‘Very abstemious, not rich enough perhaps to keep up with Bateman’s Horse?’

  ‘Very likely, sir.’

  A trickle of excitement was running along Joe’s spine. He ran his eye down the list again. What he was looking at was a list, a list of soon-to-be-widowers. The first four men on the list had all lost their wives roughly on the anniversary of this night. The fifth was an unknown quantity. If the wild theory Joe was beginning to form was to be proven, this fifth man, this Richard Templar, might hold the key to the mystery. And Somersham? Surely he would be able to throw some light on this fateful grouping? Joe was struck by a shattering thought. This grisly party was held well before the war – Somersham was not married then, had in all likelihood not even met his future wife – Peggy must have been all of ten years old at the time.

  His mind scurried over the information he had read and listened to over the last few days. On this particular day in 1910 Carmichael and Forbes only were married. Their wives had been the first on this list to die. Simms-Warburton had not married until the summer of 1912 and his wife had been drowned in the following March. And then came the gap. Not, as he – as everybody – had naturally supposed, because of the war but because there were no more wives left to this group! And then after a period of eight years, Somersham was promoted to Captain. Kitty’s awful little adage came to mind – ‘Captains may marry’. This one had taken up the privilege and, the following March, he too was a widower.