The Last Kashmiri Rose

by Barbara Cleverly

  ‘Are you my man, Prentice?’ Joe wondered.

  Andrew Drummond limped over to him and sat at his side. ‘Baffled, Sandilands?’ he said.

  ‘Less baffled,’ said Joe. ‘In fact I think I’m almost certain I know who is responsible and why. There are just one or two more questions I have to ask. But the worst thing – and this is a characteristic of enquiries leading to the solution of a series of killings of this sort – is that the police can do no more than wait for and be ready for the next incident. The girls on the station have written a song – you may even have heard it. It’s the “Calcutta Cholera Song” brought up to date as you might say, and some may think this is funny but I didn’t. It concludes – “Here’s to the dead already, And here’s to the next one that dies!” That gets a bit near the bone for me.’

  ‘It’s a British way of going on,’ said Andrew.

  ‘Not to me it isn’t,’ said Joe. ‘It just could be a bloody stupid way of going on! And, Drummond, if I’ve got it right, we all have good reason to be afraid. There will be one more killing.’

  ‘Ceaseless vigilance, Sandilands?’ said Andrew.

  ‘Ceaseless vigilance, Drummond!’ Joe agreed.

  As they spoke, the saxophonist gave way to a cavalry trumpeter in the flashy mess dress of the Bengal Greys.

  ‘Take your partners,’ shouted the comp`ere. ‘Take your partners for the Post Horn Gallop!’

  There was a loud cheer as the dancers opened up to take their places round the edge of the dance floor. Joe took his place beside Nancy and slipped his arm through hers. ‘Not galloping, Mrs. Drummond?’ he enquired.

  ‘Not if I can avoid it,’ said Nancy. ‘What about you? Are you steeplechasing?’

  ‘Not if I can avoid it,’ said Joe firmly.

  But he was wrong. As the Post Horn Gallop drew to its tumultuous conclusion Prentice took the stage and his dry voice came across. ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ he said, ‘in accordance with tradition I will now say – take your horses for the Manoli Steeplechase! And I ask Mrs Kitson-Masters to do the draw.’

  He held up a Bengal Greys ceremonial turban and proffered it to Kitty who started to draw and read out the names. ‘Smythe. Hibbert. Fortescue. Bulstrode.’ An ironic cheer. ‘Prentice.’ Another ironic cheer. ‘Sandilands.’ Applause from his admirers. ‘Easton. Forrester.’

  Prentice continued, drawing, to Joe’s dismay, a service revolver from his pocket, ‘I will invite the Collector to start the race. As soon as you are ready, gentlemen.’

  There was a clatter and a confusion as the horses were assembled at the verandah with white eyes and frothy muzzles. Joe turned to Nancy. ‘Do I have to do this?’ he said.

  ‘Yes, or be forever disgraced,’ said Nancy. ‘It’s a setup. You realise that, don’t you? Come on, Joe. You’ve got one half of the women eating out of your hand already – you might as well gather up the other half. But for God’s sake – watch your back!’ Amongst the confusion Joe was glad to claim Bamboo from the line of horses.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ announced Andrew Drummond, ‘we dispense with the formality of Epsom Downs and I shall say, “On your marks. Get set. Go.” I give you a count of ten to get in line and get mounted. The course goes across the maidan, down to the ford, right at the river bank, right again round the church, across the paddy and back up Station Road finishing here.’

  ‘This is the last thing in the world I want to do,’ said Joe, ‘at my age. Irresponsible, half-witted cavalry officers, full to the tonsils with the Club’s champagne! This is the braves of the tribe flashing their manhood, spreading their tails. I didn’t come out to India to get ridden into a waddi by some little half-wit half my age!’

  Grumbling, he took his place amidst the laughter in the rough line-up. The Greys officers had discarded their jackets and were riding in night-shirts, many wearing night-caps.

  ‘Here you are, Joe,’ shouted Midge, throwing a nightcap up to him. ‘Wear this for me!’

  ‘This is how it gets done,’ thought Joe. ‘Probably since the beginning of time and men fall for it! Christ! I bloody well fell for it!’

  ‘What do I get if I win?’ he shouted back to Midge.

  Kitty answered for her. ‘A ravishing smile, a blown kiss and a cigarette, I should think. Don’t count on more than that! As you often tell me, you are, after all, on duty.’

  ‘On your marks!’ shouted Andrew and a pistol shot started the Manoli Steeplechase amid deafening cheers.

  ‘This shouldn’t be too difficult,’ thought Joe. ‘There’s a torch at every turn, good moonlight. I’ll stay back. I’m not going to lead this drunken mob in the dark. Thank God for Bamboo! This would be a great moment to get run away with.’

  Shouting and swearing, the cortège streamed away across the maidan.

  Prentice was riding slightly ahead and to his right. Two unknown officers were noisily attempting to ride each other off to his left. Someone else he did not recognise was ahead, one or two behind him. Comfortably packed into the field, Joe galloped to the first turn and settled down to ride. Unseen by him a drainage ditch opened up across their path but the reliable Bamboo flew it and galloped on.

  In the moonlight and by the flickering light of the torches Joe became aware of a drainage ditch to his left – something more than a drainage ditch – something more in the nature of a nullah. Deep. And widening. He also became aware of a horseman on his right, a horseman boring into him. His mount was a tall black waler, all of fifteen hands, Joe calculated, with a hogged mane and a banged tail. Big enough to eat Bamboo.

  ‘Bugger off, Bulstrode!’ he shouted. ‘Get out of my pocket, you stupid sod! You’ll have me in the fucking ditch!’

  Joe didn’t want to be in the ditch. It looked very dangerous. He pulled to his right and crashed into the encroaching Bulstrode and Bamboo staggered. He lurched away to the left towards the nullah and at the last minute, at the crumbling edge of this obstacle, the horse took off on neat feet, jumping obliquely. As a piece of trick riding it was impressive and any who saw it must have supposed that Joe was a considerable horseman but it was clever Bamboo. Taking the obstacle at a diagonal it was a jump of about twelve feet. The take-off was not good but, mercifully, the landing was sound and Joe found he had put the nullah between him and his pursuer.

  Bulstrode slithered to a halt at the edge of the ditch and Joe galloped on, painfully aware that in order to rejoin the race he would have to jump the nullah once more. He rode on, unencumbered by other riders, keeping the next torch in sight. In some inexplicable way, the obstacle became shallower and wider and he was able at a point happily to splash across on to the other side and found himself, having cut off a wide corner, leading the field.

  ‘So exactly,’ he thought, ‘where I don’t want to be! Not with these drunken louts behind me!’

  He touched Bamboo with a spur and the horse laid itself down to gallop. In a wide arc he took the last turn and with relief felt the solid ground of the maidan and with more relief saw the bobbing lights of the finish.

  ‘All right, Midge,’ he thought. ‘Get the kiss ready! Here comes Sandilands!’

  And by five or six lengths he cantered in ahead of the field.

  One by one the runners returned. Gasping, panting, horses with flared nostrils and foaming muzzles, jingling curb chains, they milled about. Already they all had stories that would become part of legend.

  ‘Look at that!’ said Smythe, pointing to a gash in his boot. ‘Know what that is? It’s your bloody spur, Johnny!’

  ‘Oh, it was you, was it? I’d have upset you if I could but I didn’t realise it was you!’

  ‘Who was that in the ditch?’ Joe heard somebody ask.

  ‘Bulstrode,’ said Prentice.

  ‘How the hell did he get there?’ said Joe. ‘He nearly had me in the ditch, blast him!’

  ‘So I noticed,’ said Prentice, accepting a light from a servant and drawing on a cigar.

  ‘Obliged to you, Prentice,’ said Joe.

  �
��Can’t have people putting guests of the mess in the ditch. The Greys have a certain responsibility of hospitality, after all.’

  ‘Melmastia?’ said Joe.

  Prentice gave him a level glance. ‘Yes, if you like,’ he said.

  Midge battled her way through the crowd to Joe’s side and, hopping beside him, put one foot on his toe, jumped, swung herself into his arms and, sweeping the night-cap off his head, kissed him firmly.

  ‘That’ll do, Minette,’ said Prentice and Midge slithered to the ground.

  ‘Well done, Commander,’ came the voice of Kitty. ‘I hear from Easton you ride like a Cossack!’

  ‘I had a very clever pony who got a very bad rider out of trouble!’

  ‘Never had much time for false modesty,’ said Kitty. ‘You did very well. The other runners are not exactly inexperienced, you know.’

  There was a riff of drums and a distant voice said, ‘Supper is served, ladies and gentlemen!’

  Joe was content to have upheld the honour of the Met. Glad to have carried Midge’s favour to victory. Glad to be alive. He sat on Bamboo for a moment looking over the heads of the company as they made their way across the verandah and into the brightly lit room to the supper table. His eye was taken by a silent figure standing in the lamplight in the doorway, a silent figure in green. Rifle green. Black badges of rank, a tanned face with the white stripe of a chin strap faintly visible and the blue and white ribbon of the Military Cross.

  In a flurry, Midge erupted from the crowd and ran to this stranger.

  ‘Daddy!’ she shouted as she ran. ‘Daddy! There’s someone I want you to meet!’

  Prentice turned and stood, it seemed, aghast, his face a mask of dismay and indeed of disbelief.

  The young man took Midge by the hand, approached him and said, ‘You won’t remember me, sir, but we have met. Here. In 1910.’

  Prentice collected himself and with great control said, ‘I remember you. I remember you very well, Templar.’

  Chapter Twenty

  ON THE MORNING following the Manoli Dance, Joe woke to the conviction that he was getting too old for race-riding in the middle of the night. Stiff and unaccustomed muscles were reluctant to obey his commands and he sat up painfully with a groan, testing each limb in turn. His thoughts ran back over the incidents of the previous night and centred on gallant Bamboo, remembering with affection his convulsive diagonal jump over the drainage ditch. ‘If I’m aching,’ he thought, ‘what about Bamboo, I wonder? Not getting any younger either.’

  He knew that the horse would have been in good hands but a temptation came over him to assure himself of this. Painfully he kicked himself out of bed, pulled on the first clothes that came to hand and stepped out into a silent Indian dawn. Silent, that is, except for distant sounds. A dog barked and the bark was picked up in faint chorus by others and died away into the distance. Somewhere a water wheel was turning with a rhythmic clank. A small child awoke with a cry, instantly hushed.

  Joe stood for a moment savouring the calm of a windless day. As he watched, the first spiral of smoke from a cooking fire began to rise, melting into the morning mist which lay in parallel with the sleeping earth. The world was waiting for the day. Soon the cacophony of life in Panikhat would break out once more but, for now, in opalescent peace, Joe had the town to himself.

  Pausing to collect a handful of sugar lumps from his breakfast table, he set off through the town to the stables. Enjoying as ever the breathing and the smell, the clicks, the rustle and the constant movement of the stables, he looked for Bamboo. On the one hand he saw the ponies – Bamboo was amongst them – and on the other, stretching seemingly into infinity, the greys of Bateman’s Horse.

  Bamboo greeted him with a flattering whicker of recognition and noisily accepted four lumps of sugar, bumping with his head to search Joe’s pockets for more. Joe ran a hand over his legs and over his quarters, decided that his companion of the night before was no more the worse for wear than he was himself and at a sound turned to see the long figure and haunted face of William Somersham.

  ‘Sandilands!’ he said in surprise. ‘You’re an early bird! I usually have the place to myself at this time of day. Do the police always get up at this hour?’

  ‘No. Not always. Not even often. I wanted to make sure my old friend and adviser –’ He slapped Bamboo on the rump. ‘– was none the worse for our efforts yesterday.’

  ‘Congratulations, by the way,’ said Somersham, sitting down on a straw bale and offering a cigarette to Joe. ‘Congratulations! I didn’t witness your performance but by all I hear you did well, brilliantly even. There aren’t many who can outride Prentice. To look at me now you wouldn’t believe it but I nearly won the Manoli Steeplechase once. Though I wouldn’t have confessed it at the time I don’t mind telling you – I nearly won it because I was run away with! Bloody awful horse! Bought it from Prentice. It nearly killed me. I was young in those days. Should never have bought the animal. It was vicious and dangerous but when the charming Prentice sets his mind on something, the sort of diffident young man I was in those days just gets carried away.’

  ‘Tell me,’ said Joe. ‘It was a long time ago and you may not remember but I’ve been thinking a good deal about the night of the Prentice fire. It may be relevant to my enquiry – and it may not – but even so, do you remember that evening?’

  ‘Obviously. I shall never forget it. But I don’t think there’s very much I can tell you.’

  He appeared to wish not to continue the conversation and stirred uncomfortably.

  ‘You were one of five officers dining together in the mess that night,’ Joe persisted. ‘Did you know each other well? Was it by arrangement that you met?’

  Somersham considered this for a moment. ‘Five of us were there? No, we didn’t know each other particularly well so it was by pure chance that we were there in the mess together that evening. The other officers and their wives had all gone off to a midnight picnic. So what you were left with in the mess was, I suppose, the social misfits of the day. Carmichael’s wife was ill and had cried off. Forbes the MO stayed behind on duty and the rest of us, all bachelors, couldn’t be bothered. Funny sort of entertainment if you ask me. I suppose Jonno – Simms-Warburton – would have gone like a shot if Dolly Prentice had been going but everyone thought she was in Calcutta with Giles.’

  ‘Simms-Warburton was in love with Dolly?’

  ‘Weren’t we all to some extent! But Jonno more than most. In our different ways we were all captivated by her. She deserved better than Prentice. He was not liked.’

  ‘Not liked?’ Joe queried. ‘Wouldn’t you put it stronger than that?’

  ‘All right, Mr Policeman. He was cordially disliked. It wouldn’t be too much to say he was cordially detested. Many were frightened of him. I wasn’t of course, but many were.’

  ‘And yet I’ve heard it said that he’s much respected by the men?’

  ‘Oh, yes. Very popular with the men. And the natives, the Indians, of all sorts, they eat out of his hand. But the officers have never been able to get along with him. It’s impossible to be easy in his company. He deliberately sets out to offend. He had nicknames for all of us – I was Silly Billy Somersham – still am! But Forbes, the MO, was a special target. Bullied him, you could say. Seemed to think he wasn’t quite up to the standards of the regiment and was always having a go at him. No cause to do that. Chap was a perfectly good doctor.’

  ‘And what were his relations with Carmichael?’

  ‘Carmichael hated him. They should have been at level pegging in their career but it was always Prentice who was one jump ahead. Hard to live with that.’

  ‘So what we have here is an impromptu meeting of the Prentice Appreciation Society? But what about the fifth man? Dickie Templar. Did he have cause to hate Prentice?’

  ‘Dickie Templar?’ Somersham barely seemed to recall the name. ‘Oh, Templar! Passing through on his way to the frontier. No. He’d been here all of two minutes. Shouldn�
�t think he’d managed to work up a hatred in the time. Dickie. He was the one who spotted the fire.’

  ‘Tell me what happened then.’

  ‘Well, what do you expect happened? The fire was spotted. Our horses were right there. We got on them and rode out to Prentice’s bungalow. We weren’t on duty, you know. I mean, no reason for us to investigate … no reason at all. The Queen’s were dealing with everything. Good fellows … did their best … but they couldn’t save the bungalow. They go up in no time at all. Thatch, weeks of hot weather drying everything out. Go up like matchwood. Not a hope. Bandits did it. No doubt about that. Never has been. Dolly never stood a chance. The guilty men were caught and punished, as you probably know. No, Sandilands, it’s no use raking about in the ashes of the Prentice fire to solve your mystery. It doesn’t compare with the tragedy of Peggy’s death. That I really do want to know about! Are you any nearer to knowing what happened to Peg?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Joe. ‘Very much nearer.’

  With a clatter a pony was led out and Somersham excused himself. ‘I ride at this time every day,’ he said without further explanation, mounted and was gone.

  On return to his bungalow, Joe was glad to see Naurung deferentially in attendance and greeted him cheerfully.

  ‘The sahib is about to eat his breakfast,’ said Naurung. ‘I will wait.’

  ‘You’ll do no such thing,’ said Joe, ‘and that is an order. I’ll give you a cup of coffee and you’ll come and talk to me while I have my breakfast.’

  Reluctantly Naurung entered and, as gingerly as ever, took a seat on the edge of a chair while Joe lifted a cover to reveal two perfectly poached eggs on toast.

  ‘Right. Now, tell me what you have turned up.’

  ‘The sahib asked me to discover what Superintendent Bulstrode was doing on the night of Mrs Somersham’s death.’

  ‘Had he an alibi?’

  ‘Yes, I have to tell you that he has an alibi.’

  Something in his manner caused Joe to look up. It would have been impossible for the dignified Naurung to be wrestling with suppressed laughter, but that, it seemed, was what was happening.