The Last Kashmiri Rose

by Barbara Cleverly

  ‘Prentice!’ he said. ‘But how? And why?’

  ‘I’ll do my best to explain,’ said Joe, patting his pockets in vain. He held out his hand. ‘Give me a cigarette, shove over and I’ll tell you.’ He joined him on the straw bale.

  Carefully he laid out the whole tale of Prentice’s iniquity concluding with the words, ‘Andrew Drummond said to me, “Find him. You find him and I’ll shoot him.” I found him, though perhaps more accurately he declared himself as such people often do, unable to believe that anyone could frustrate their purpose, but it was Nancy who shot him.’

  ‘Nancy! And what now?’ said William. ‘Nancy – is she – er – all right? Is she safe? What would this be? Justifiable homicide? I hope she’s not in trouble with the law …’

  ‘There would be formalities to be gone through, of course, but no, I don’t think she’s in trouble with the law. My concern is not for Nancy but for Midge.’

  ‘Midge?’

  ‘Prentice’s daughter, Minette.’

  ‘Of course, Midge. Poor child. But look here, I say, Sandilands, Prentice’s house is on fire. The evidence will be destroyed, won’t it? Does she have to know what happened? Does she have to know her father was many times a murderer? Wouldn’t it be possible to keep this knowledge from her?’

  Joe hesitated a long time before replying. ‘William, you’re the only person in the world who could say that. I can’t bring your wife’s murderer to justice and keep the facts from Midge.’

  ‘Justice!’ said Somersham explosively. ‘If Prentice were alive, I’d find the means to bring him to judgement. Silly Billy Somersham would have found the strength! But as it is, Joe, for God’s sake – spare that child and for the rest, let pass the judgement of God.’

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  THE ECHO OF the volley discharged by a Shropshire Light Infantry firing party over the grave of Giles Prentice died away and with it the rumble of wheels from the gun carriage which had carried him from his house to the cantonment cemetery. The clatter of hooves from the six grey troop-horses of Bateman’s Horse was silent at last and the serried ranks of Greys sowars – black mourning bands wound about their turbans – had tearfully dispersed to their barracks to grieve in private for the man who had brought them safely back from France. There were, at the last, some to weep for him, thought Joe. He watched as Prentice’s horse with muffled hooves and Prentice’s boots reversed and suspended on either side of the saddle was led away to the stable.

  George Jardine’s Daimler with liveried chauffeur and footman waited outside Nancy’s bungalow. ‘I suppose I must go and talk to Uncle George,’ said Joe, ‘but not yet.’

  But at that moment, ‘Joe!’ called George Jardine. ‘There you are! I have to go but just walk a few paces with me, will you?’

  He put his arm through Joe’s and they turned aside from the crowd of mourners at the churchyard gate. ‘Don’t say anything, Joe,’ he said. ‘Don’t tell me anything. There are certain things I don’t want to know. “Death by misadventure” – that’s all I needed to hear.’

  ‘I was going to spend the day writing a report to you,’ said Joe.

  ‘I don’t want it,’ said George. ‘Let the dead bury their dead. And I’ll tell you – you’ve lifted a weight from this place. I feel it. All feel it. What more can I say? Congratulations, I suppose. So – congratulations!’

  ‘It was a mess,’ said Joe morosely.

  ‘Nothing like the mess it would have been if you hadn’t been here – never forget that!’

  He started off back up the road to Nancy’s house but turned and said, ‘Oh, by the way, Joe – that box-wallah you and Naurung tracked down – the witness Bulstrode let go in the Peggy Somersham case – police finally caught up with him in Bombay. Wonderful invention, the telegraph! You were quite right, of course – March was the month he always visited Panikhat on his itinerary. Well spotted! Religious maniac apparently. And you spotted that too! I should think that by next week we’ll be announcing that we’ve got a confession. Wouldn’t be surprised to find he’s been responsible for more mayhem around the country. If anyone were to enquire. Eh? What? Wrap the case up and no need for panic next March. Should think there’s a promotion coming Naurung’s way, wouldn’t you?’

  So cheerful, sincere and delighted was his large pink face that, for a moment, Joe believed him.

  ‘Well?’ said Kitty, taking the Governor’s place at Joe’s side.

  ‘“The captains and the kings depart, The tumult and the shouting dies …”

  ‘And I suppose you’ll be gone too. Gone from the Land of Regrets. Without regret, I wonder? Leaving some part of your heart behind?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ said Joe, ‘certainly that.’

  Kitty gave him a steely and searching look. ‘Leaving anything else behind? It’s all right – you don’t have to answer. Everybody thinks I’m the most irresponsible tell-tale in Bengal but such is not the case. Your secret – if secret there be – is safe with me!’

  ‘Well, Nancy?’ said Joe.

  ‘Well, Joe?’ said Nancy. ‘Here we are.’

  ‘I didn’t want to stay and now, when it comes to it, I don’t want to go.’

  ‘Go you must, Joe. You see it, I’m sure. But, as for me, I’ve lived on a tightrope for days. It’s been difficult sometimes, bloody difficult, but it would become impossible. It could only work if you didn’t give a damn about me and I flatter myself …’

  ‘You don’t have to flatter yourself,’ said Joe. ‘I care more than I can say.’

  ‘Go and say a fond goodbye to Andrew, will you? And – fond is right – he thinks the world of you! I like that.’

  ‘He’s very fine,’ said Joe. ‘He led us all that night.’

  ‘You’re right. He is fine. I noticed it from the first all those years ago at St Omer.’

  And then, after a pause, ‘Did I deceive you, Joe? Were you deceived?’

  ‘For a moment, perhaps.’

  ‘And did you mind?’

  Joe hesitated, wondering whether to speak the truth. In the end, ‘No,’ he said. ‘I was touched and perhaps even flattered and now – what on earth can I say? Something silly like – I hope it all works out.’

  ‘Do you want to know what happens?’

  ‘I’ve thought about that. The answer really is no. I’d be distressed for you if I knew it hadn’t worked and distressed for me if I knew that it had. I’m not made of marble, you know!’

  Making sure that he was not followed and hoping that he wasn’t seen, he slipped away, returning to the grave-side. He held a spray of small red roses in his hand.

  ‘The last Kashmiri rose,’ he said as he laid it across the grave mound.

  ‘I saw you go and thought I’d follow you,’ came a familiar voice from behind him, and Midge came and stood at his side. Her pallor and slight figure were emphasised by the funeral dress she wore, a black silk outfit of Nancy’s, hurriedly adapted to her size, and a long string of borrowed pearls. She looked so insubstantial that Joe automatically put out an arm to steady her.

  ‘Funny,’ she said. ‘We had the same idea. I wanted to do something. I’ve brought him some flowers too. He always liked these little red ones so I’ll put mine with yours. What were you saying? “The last Kashmiri rose?” Is that what they are? Well, there they are, side by side.’

  Joe was overcome with pity and a tear stung his eye. He held out his arms and gathered Midge to him. She rested her head on his shoulder. ‘I’m sad,’ she said. ‘Very sad. It’s funny – I can’t cry.’

  ‘Brave girl,’ said Joe. ‘Colonel’s daughter.’

  Midge began to cry at last. ‘I don’t feel like a Colonel’s daughter,’ she said, through her tears. ‘Now my mother’s dead, my father’s dead and there’s only me left.’

  ‘Dickie?’ Joe ventured.

  ‘Oh yes, there’s Dickie,’ she said, drying her tears on Joe’s shoulder. ‘Dickie of course. He’s only gone to Peshawar and now – it seems an awful thing to say
, I suppose – but as soon as Nancy can arrange it we can get married.’ She looked thoughtfully down at the grave.

  ‘I expect he would have approved in the end,’ said Joe comfortably.

  ‘I wish I could think so,’ said Midge, surprisingly. ‘Joe?’ She hesitated for a moment. ‘What everybody’s saying – that it was all a hideous accident … overturning his bedside lamp and all that … it’s just not true. Is it? You must tell me the truth, Joe.’

  With a calm he didn’t feel Joe said, ‘What do you mean, Midge? It was an accident.’

  Midge shook her head. ‘I’m not such a fool, Joe, and I know why you and Nancy and – yes, Dickie too, he’s in it with you – have been trying to keep the truth from me. But I’ve worked it out. I woke up at Nancy’s feeling very ill and they tried to tell me it was something I’d eaten. It wasn’t. It was something I’d drunk. Something Daddy gave me in a glass before bedtime. It made me sleep. Now why would he want me to sleep through the night and not wake up? I’ll tell you …’

  Joe could only let her talk on while his blood froze.

  ‘It was because he … oh, it was all my fault … Joe, he was going to commit suicide. He’d planned it. We’d had another terrible row and I’d told him I was going to run away with Dickie – go away with him when he left. I didn’t mean it! But I think he couldn’t bear it. He’d lost my mother and now he was to lose me. I don’t think he had anything left to live for. I killed him, Joe, didn’t I?’

  ‘Now listen, Midge,’ said Joe softly, stroking her hair, ‘listen to an experienced London bobby, will you – the finest Scotland Yard has to offer. We know about the drugs and yes, Nancy did invent the story of the food poisoning, though now I think perhaps we should have told you the truth there and then. Giles thought you really might try to run away and to stop you jumping out of a window at midnight into Dickie’s arms, he gave you a sleeping draught. Not a very strong one, according to Nancy. We think he tried to stay awake reading his book, on watch, until almost dawn. He must have nodded off at the last and knocked his lamp over. In fact, Nancy thinks he could well have had a heart attack and overturned the lamp when he died. Otherwise, of course, the flames and the heat would have wakened him. Lucky for you, Midge, that Naurung Singh was passing on his way to work and managed to pull you out. He went back for Giles but it was too late.’

  Midge looked at him with large eyes, eagerly reading his face. ‘Joe! Is this true? Is this really the truth you’re telling me?’

  Joe considered for a moment. ‘Well, I might conceivably lie to you – though I can’t imagine the circumstances. Dickie I know would lie if he thought he was protecting you from something but – Naurung Singh? He will tell you that Giles was in bed with an overturned lamp on the floor when he died. If your father had been intending to commit suicide he’d have simply gone into the garden and shot himself. You know your father! An old warrior like Giles wouldn’t have put his pyjamas on and gone to bed with a good book!’

  Midge, smiling and weeping at the same time, stood on tiptoe and kissed him.

  ‘May I be forgiven!’ said Joe but he didn’t say it out loud.

  Turn the page for a sneak preview of

  The Blood Royal

  the latest mystery starring

  JOE SANDILANDS

  Prologue

  LONDON, OCTOBER 1920

  ‘ARE YOU SURE this is the place, cabby? It looks rather grand…’

  ‘St Katharine’s Square, number 1, Guv’nor, just like you said. They’re all grand in this neck of the woods. This is a Royal Borough, sir. But if you don’t fancy it, we can always move on.’

  ‘No. Wait here. I’m in no hurry.’

  The passenger in naval uniform peered again through the gloom of an October evening, taking in the magnificence of the four-storey mansion.

  ‘Well I may be in a hurry,’ the cab driver objected. ‘Fog’s coming up.’

  ‘A pea-souper, eh? I’ve been away for years. I’ve forgotten what they look like.’

  ‘Pea-souper – nothing! This one’s going to be a brown windsor, judging by the smell of it. Straight up off the river,’ the grumbling went on. ‘It’s to be hoped they’ve got the acetylene flares alight round Trafalgar Square or I’ll never get you back to the station, Guv.’

  The naval man was barely listening, all his attention on the stuccoed, balconied façade. Electric lights penetrated the growing darkness, offering a welcoming orange glow behind drawn curtains. In the upper floors, lamps or candles were moving between rooms as staff came off or went on duty.

  ‘Well at least there’s someone at home,’ he said, awkwardly throwing a pebble into the silence ponding between him and the young woman by his side.

  She made no reply.

  He took her hand and gave it an encouraging squeeze. ‘Nearly there, Miss Petrovna! Three thousand miles and three years – but you’ve made it!’ He spoke with a cheerfulness he couldn’t feel.

  Sensitive as he’d become to his companion’s moods, the captain interpreted the barely audible response as a mew of distress and his resolve began to crack. He’d avoided saying farewell - he was embarrassed by emotional leave-takings, especially those made in public - and there was nothing more to add.

  Even so, he launched into one last speech. ‘Look… Miss… um… Anna… There’s still time to change your mind. You don’t have to do this yet. Come home with me.’ After the slightest pause, he resumed: ‘My wife would make you very welcome. Joan is a fine woman – she’d care for you. Get you properly on your feet. Our family doctor is no slouch and he’d rally round, I know. It needn’t be for long. Just as long as you choose.’

  She turned reproachful eyes on him and shook her head in regret.

  The captain realised with a shock that he’d experienced the same devastating rejection years before. How many? Well over twenty. He’d been no more than a boy in short trousers. He’d been tramping the moors with his father when they’d come across an injured otter. A very young female. His indulgent old pa had allowed him to carry the animal home in his jacket. He’d cared for her, fed her, watched her grow strong and mischievous. And always closing his ears to the concerned parental advice: ‘Wild creatures, otters! Never think you can house-train ‘em! Taking little things, of course, but you shouldn’t get fond of ‘em.’

  The day came when she escaped from her pen, invaded his mother’s kitchen and wrecked it.

  He hadn’t waited for his parents to tell him his duty. It was clear. He’d taken her back into the wild himself, choosing a spot where he knew the fishing was good and there was a thriving otter colony. On the river bank he’d whispered goodbye, never really thinking she would leave him.

  Pain had gathered and lodged in his young throat like a ball of india-rubber, threatening to suffocate him, as he watched her leap with delight into the water, dive, surface, dive again, swimming away from him. He’d turned, swiping at the tears in his eyes with the sleeve of his rough sweater and he’d begun to blunder back home across the meadow.

  A piercing chirp made him stop and turn and there she was behind him, on the bank again, wet fur comically spiked, staring at him with intelligent black eyes. Black eyes he could have sworn were asking where on earth he thought he was sloping off to. The moment he started back towards her, calling her name, she turned, yipped in satisfaction and dived into the water.

  He never saw her again.

  In a busy and danger-filled life, he’d scarcely thought about her until this moment of parting raised the same choking pain.

  ‘Very well. Message received, cabby! Look, wait here with the young lady, will you, while I go and announce us. I’ll be a few minutes.’

  The door was opened by a butler as he approached.

  ‘Captain Swinburne? Good evening, sir. Her Highness is expecting you. Will you come up to the drawing room?’

  He followed the butler down the spacious hallway and up the stairs. They made towards an open door through which filtered smoky, autumnal music –
a Chopin nocturne, he thought. When they entered, the pianist abandoned her piece and came smiling to greet him. A striking-looking Russian woman in her fifties, dark hair streaked with grey, she made a reassuring impression on him: friendly and, yes, he would have said – motherly. Somehow, he hadn’t expected – motherly. Or small.

  Sherry was offered and politely refused. He declined to take a seat by the fire.

  Facing him across the rug in front of the fireplace, the princess came straight to the point. ‘You have her, Captain? Our Anna?’

  ‘Miss Petrovna is waiting in the taxi, Your Highness, and eager to see you. I wanted to have a word with you in private before I leave her in your hands.’

  She listened intently as he moved through his account. He confirmed that the girl had been found collapsed and almost dead on the doorstep of the British consul in Murmansk in Northern Russia. On recovering sufficiently, she had begged to be given a passage to Britain where she knew members of her family were living. The consul had contacted Swinburne aboard his ship which was patrolling the Arctic seas off shore. He’d agreed to take her on board and bring her back to Portsmouth where he was due to call in for a refit in the autumn.

  He was quite certain that none of this was fresh news to the Russian lady but she listened intently to every word, seeming to value his first-hand report.

  He told her how pleased the ship’s doctor had been with the patient’s progress. The best food the boat could provide, fresh air, exercise and the stimulation of a late summer’s cruise along the coast of Norway had almost restored her to full physical health. The captain was careful to explain that the ship had been conveying back home a consular family who had gladly lent one of their maids as nurse cum chaperone so all the proprieties had been observed.

  The Russian acknowledged this with a tilt of the head and an understanding smile.

  But it was the girl’s mental state that he needed to lay out for her future guardian, he stressed. ‘She has suffered unbelievable hardship… loss… torture would not be too strong a word… unremitting squalor for three years. Anyone less strong and tenacious of life would not have survived. But the work is not yet finished - it will be some time before she’s fully recovered. It’s possible that the services of an alienist might be called upon with advantage.’ A radical suggestion but the lady seemed not to be offended. She even nodded in acceptance and Swinburne felt emboldened to press his point. ‘There are physicians in London with certain skills acquired in the war… Anna’s condition is in some ways similar to those I have witnessed for myself in men experiencing the prolonged terrors of the battlefield. And, survivor that she is, she deserves the appropriate treatment. I would like you to be aware of this. I will not leave her in any situation that I do not judge to be congenial and capable of responding to her condition.’