Ragtime in Simla

by Barbara Cleverly

  Joe made a note of this name and Marie-Jeanne went on, apparently ready to dispel any idea that there might be something shady going on in Simla. ‘All the best people go to her seances, you know. Alice is in no way regarded as being out of the ordinary because she takes an interest. And Mrs Freemantle is very talented – I, myself, am not a believer but I have to admit that what she does is skilfully done and does no harm. At best it comforts people and at worst it’s a harmless game.’

  Joe made a mental note to take this up with Carter. To him, the mention of spiritualism had been a warning signal. He changed the subject, not wishing to alert Marie-Jeanne to his deepening interest.

  ‘So, we have a clever, hard-working and successful lady with a well-rounded personality? But there is, it seems to me, one discordant note in all this… her marriage to Reggie Sharpe? Was that, in your opinion, a clever move?’ asked Joe.

  Marie-Jeanne’s tender expression froze into cold disapproval. ‘At the time she convinced me – she convinced herself – that it was the right, the sensible, thing to do.’ She paused for a moment. ‘But I infer from your question that you do not consider it a clever move?’

  ‘Not my place to judge.’

  ‘Too late!’ she said. ‘I think that you have met Reggie and that you have judged him – as we all have.’

  ‘And how is that?’

  ‘As a drunken, self-important, self-indulgent man who could never be the husband Alice deserves!’ She made no attempt to hide her anger and scorn.

  ‘You judge him despicable – do you also consider him dangerous?’

  ‘To whom?’

  Joe remained silent and looked at her steadily.

  ‘Yes, I do,’ she went on. ‘I consider him a threat to anyone who would attempt to thwart him and that includes his wife.’

  ‘And Alice is courting danger when she attempts to curb his excesses?’

  ‘Alice is riding a tiger! Reggie is not the toothless old donkey she has persuaded herself that he is!’

  Her concern, her distress, was so evident Joe found himself responding to it. ‘It may be a consolation, Mademoiselle Pitiot,’ he said, ‘to hear that only yesterday Alice herself voiced just such suspicions to me and they are being investigated. Nevertheless, her friends would do well to look out for her. I really believe she feels in danger of her life. Please, mademoiselle, seek my help if you think there is anything untoward going on.’

  ‘Thank you, Commander. I will do that.’

  She began to stir and look towards the door to the showroom where fresh noises had broken out and was obviously eager to return to the sales floor. Joe rose and began to take his leave. He thanked her for her hospitality and made for the door, turning with his hand on the knob to say, ‘I almost forgot to ask and please forgive such a bodeful question – I assure you it is purely routine – but where were you exactly between the hours of twelve and five on Monday?’

  For a moment she was taken aback and then said slowly, ‘You mean when the Russian opera singer was killed? I was, now let me think… Shall I get my day book? No, I think I can remember. I was having tiffin at the Grand Hotel with a glove manufacturer from Bombay until two o’clock – no, later than two – but you won’t be able to check that with him because he’s since gone on to Calcutta, and after that I went back to my warehouse to look over the latest arrivals with two of my staff. Let me think… It was Sumitra and Renée. We must have been there until nearly five o’clock and then I came back to the shop to close down. Do you want me to call my assistants, Commander?’

  Joe shook his head. ‘Later perhaps, not for the moment, mademoiselle.’

  He took his leave and bowed his way out of the shop, emerging into the sunshine with a sigh of relief. Standing for a moment to get his bearings, he decided to walk the hundred yards or so to the Grand Hotel to check Mademoiselle Pitiot’s story. He remembered what Carter had said – when it came to shooting, the women of Simla were crack shots and though he had never come across a less likely markswoman than the so correct Mademoiselle Pitiot, Joe was methodical. The murder had occurred at two forty-five exactly so if she had indeed been lunching at the Grand there was no way she could have been five miles away in an inaccessible spot drawing a bead on Korsovsky.

  On entering the Grand he was smoothly intercepted by the maître d’hôtel, still at this early hour in shirt-sleeves, busy and not pleased to be interrupted. Joe produced his warrant card which gained him the attention he required and asked to see the reservations for Monday. The maître d’hôtel indicated a large leather-bound book open on a stand by the double doors to the restaurant. Turning back two pages he murmured, ‘Monday… Not a busy day. By no means a full dining room.’

  Joe looked down the short list. At 1 p.m. table number ten had been booked for Mademoiselle Pitiot and guest. ‘This guest of Mademoiselle Pitiot – a gentleman?’

  The maître d’hôtel did not welcome questions. ‘A gentleman, yes. A Frenchman, Monsieur Carneau. He is a regular guest of the hotel. Mademoiselle Pitiot always entertains her business associates here.’

  ‘You know her well, Mademoiselle Pitiot?’

  ‘She also is a regular guest of the hotel, sir. I should say she lunches here two or three times a month.’

  ‘And what time did they leave?’

  ‘Somewhere between half-past two and three o’clock, sir.’ And, coldly, ‘Do you require to hear the menu they chose? I could have the waiter sent for…’

  Joe left with expressions of gratitude and made for the police station to check developments with Charlie Carter. As he strolled along looking with fascination at the shop windows he came to an abrupt halt before the display in a jeweller’s shop.

  It was the rope of pearls that caught his eye. Amongst the riot of glittering pieces, emerald rings, sapphire necklaces, diamond clips, the rope stood out for its simplicity. It was draped around the swanlike neck of a black velvet mannequin and gleamed with the discreet allure of finely matched, high quality pearls. It was an exact likeness of the one he had seen around the neck of Madame Flora.

  On impulse he went into the shop. He was relieved to see that he was the only client. A musty smell – of incense? – came faintly to his nose and when his eyes accustomed themselves to the gloom he discovered that he was in a shop very unlike the ones he was used to in the Burlington Arcade. Joe had an impression of a fabulous collection of glittering gems but also of antiquities on display. Were they for sale or were they merely for decoration, the Tibetan ghost masks, the Kashmiri embroideries hanging on the walls, the piles of sumptuous rugs, the racks of silver daggers?

  As he gazed, enchanted, an assistant who had been dusting shelves in the gloomy depths of the shop came forward. A handsome young hill boy with turquoise eyes to rival the gems, he addressed Joe politely in English, enquiring what service he might offer the gentleman. Joe asked if he could speak with the proprietor. Since he came forward at once from a back room, Joe assumed that the proprietor had seen him enter.

  A middle-aged man with an aquiline nose, sharp eyes and a greying beard, the owner could have been eastern European or even Turkish, Joe guessed. He nodded to Joe and said in an accented English, ‘Robertson, Cecil Robertson. Tell me how I may help you, Commander Sandilands.’

  Joe looked at him, startled for a moment. Robertson smiled deprecatingly. ‘As far as I know, and my knowledge stretches far, Commander, there is only one Scotland Yard policeman at large in Simla at the moment. I assume you are he.’

  Joe handed him his card. ‘Not on official duty, you understand, Robertson. Purely personal and unprofessional.’ He leaned forward and said confidingly, ‘Couldn’t help noticing as I passed your window that wonderful string of pearls. Just what my, er…’ He managed a slight stammer and felt that the gloom did not do justice to his blush. ‘Well, anyway, it’s a lovely piece and might just do the trick, if you follow me… eh?’

  Robertson smiled and listened.

  ‘Well, to be blunt, how much are you valui
ng it at?’

  ‘That rope would be worth a thousand rupees, Commander. It is, as you have obviously noticed, very fine. The pearls are exceptional – large and unflawed – and they are well matched. Would you like to handle it?’ He smiled. ‘I warn you that once you have it in your hands and feel the silkiness and weight of the pearls you will be unwilling to let it go.’

  Joe shook his head. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, ‘but a thousand rupees, that’s too steep for a London policeman like me! Ah, well,’ he sighed, ‘it will have to be chocolates again or perhaps a bouquet of Madame Flora’s best.’

  He looked closely at the man’s face, watching for any change of expression when he heard the name of a client whose neck was adorned by the twin of this necklace. But he was disappointed. The man remained unflinchingly bland and polite.

  Joe said goodbye, adding his regrets, and the boy assistant showed him to the door. For a moment Joe stood on the pavement looking again at the necklace. He was remembering not only the pearls around Flora’s neck but also the matching pearl and diamond ear-rings.

  At that moment he would have given much to turn out Madame Flora’s jewel box.

  He counted to ten and then swept back into the shop.

  Robertson was still behind the counter giving instructions to the boy. He looked up in surprise at Joe’s abrupt reappearance and obvious change in demeanour.

  ‘One question,’ said Joe. ‘This is police business and I require an instant and truthful reply. Who, in Simla, is your best customer? And by that I mean the one who spends the largest sums of money with you – who would that be?’

  ‘Mrs Sharpe,’ he said without taking time to reflect. ‘Alice Conyers-Sharpe. ’

  * * *

  Chapter Thirteen

  « ^ »

  Eager to tell Carter about his foray into the world of fashion and his incursion into the jeweller’s shop, Joe hurried along to the police station where he was greeted by smart salutes and wide smiles. A brisk order was called out for tea to be brought and he was shown into Carter’s office.

  ‘Ah, Joe! Glad you’ve surfaced at last! Had word from Simpson. He’s on the early train and will be with us about midday. I can see you’ve been up to something. Your trouble is that, for an experienced bobby, you are sadly impressionable! Can it be Marie-Jeanne Pitiot who’s stirred you to such a pitch of excitement?’

  Joe went carefully through his interview with Mademoiselle Pitiot, saying at last, ‘So it looks as though we’ve got yet another obliging, communicative, “do let me know if there’s anything further I can do to help” woman with a solid alibi on the scene. I begin to get a bit suspicious when all the suspects are falling over themselves to be helpful. Tell you what though, Charlie, I have met someone who made my nose twitch! Anything known – and by that I mean to his discredit, of course – about a Cecil Robertson, jeweller of this town? Cecil Robertson! Such a likely name!’

  ‘Well, for a start, that actually is his name! Scottish father, Persian mother. Not a bad pedigree if you think about it for someone who makes a lot of money out of trading in gems. I keep an eye on him. All that valuable property in small parcels, cash washing about the place, opportunities unrivalled for smuggling and goodness knows what else. As far as I can see there’s never been a whiff of suspicion that his business is not entirely above board. His clients include the highest in the land. And, if you’ve seen his shop, you’ll understand why! It’s not Cartier’s, it’s not Asprey’s – it’s more Aladdin’s Cave and every bit as irresistible! Not only for buying but for selling – or even pawning as well. Expensive place, Simla. Temporary financial embarrassment not unknown and Cecil Robertson’s your man!’

  ‘And do you know who is his best customer? I asked him and, without any hesitation, he said – Alice Sharpe. Does that surprise you?’

  Carter was silent for a moment, nonplussed. ‘Yes, it does,’ he said finally. ‘I suppose in a way it ought not to because she is, after all, extremely rich but she is not at all showy. She always wears simple frocks and if I were trying to think of a particularly fine piece of jewellery that I’ve seen her wearing, do you know – I don’t think I could mention one! I suppose she does wear the stuff – viceregal balls and that sort of thing – but you’ll have to ask Meg for details. It’s certainly escaped my attention.’

  ‘Whereas Madame Flora flaunts her ill-gotten gains for all to see.’

  ‘Not all. Only clients remember. Seems a bit unfair to waste all that beauty on the lower degrees and the dissolute of the town,’ Carter sighed.

  A police havildar slipped into the room and gestured towards the window.

  ‘Ah, that’ll be him! Our man Simpson!’ said Carter, jumping up and going to look out. Joe joined him and they watched as a tonga drew up and a tall man, slim and with a scholarly stoop, got uncertainly out. He was wearing a well-cut brown linen suit, white shirt with a regimental tie and a panama hat. He leaned heavily on a stick and his eyes were concealed behind dark glasses. A waiting policeman greeted him and ushered him swiftly into the station.

  Carter went to the door and flung it open. ‘Simpson? Captain Colin Simpson?’ he said cheerfully. ‘Come in, sir. Come in. We’re delighted to see you. So very good of you to come! This is Commander Joe Sandilands of Scotland Yard who’s on secondment in India at the moment. I mentioned him when we spoke on the telephone. Char! Jildi!’

  Carter drew forward a chair and Simpson limped his way to it and settled down. ‘It’s all right, Captain, I’m not blind,’ he said in a firm, cheerful voice. ‘But I think you’ll understand why I wear these when I take them off.’

  He took his dark glasses off for a moment and then replaced them at once. Joe and Carter just had time to register a right eye, brown and alert but surrounded by thick scar tissue, and a shockingly empty left eye socket. ‘Apt to frighten the horses to say nothing of the memsahibs, so I keep them covered up. Souvenir of Ypres. The limp’s one hundred per cent genuine.’

  ‘Ah, yes, well, thank you for explaining that, Simpson,’ said Carter. ‘And we’re very grateful you could get up here to speak to us with such speed. We don’t have much to spare but you must let us pay your expenses – indeed, I insist.’

  ‘Thank you but I was very anxious to come. I dropped quite a few things I ought not to have dropped and there’ll be hell to pay when I get back but what you had to say rang a bell with me. Something I’ve been bottling up for years, you know, always intending to make a clean breast of it, and then realizing that nobody is in the least bit interested in what I have to say – can you imagine?’

  ‘The Beaune railway disaster?’ said Joe. ‘It’s somewhat peripheral to our enquiries, I’m afraid, so I hope you won’t think you’ve wasted your time coming all this way to talk to a couple of strangers about something that might, in the end, have no relevance to our case.’

  ‘Look here,’ said Simpson earnestly, ‘I’ve waited three years to talk to someone about the crash. It almost doesn’t matter what you decide is the relevance of what I have to say… I just need to say it… get it out in the open… and that’s what I’ve come for.’

  Carter sat back in his chair, leaving Joe to continue the conversation. ‘Very well, and that’s good to hear. Let me start by outlining our area of interest and then perhaps you could just fill in with information as you feel able to do so? This isn’t an official interrogation or anything like that – just look on it as three chaps who are trying to tug on loose ends of a puzzle until one end pulls free.

  ‘You were travelling first class when the accident happened, I understand? We are interested in another first class passenger – an English girl called Alice Conyers – and we wondered whether you had any contact with her during the journey?’

  ‘Certainly,’ said Simpson. ‘I travelled in the same compartment as Alice and at the moment of the accident we were dining together in the dining car.’

  Joe and Carter looked at each other, trying to play down their relief and excitement at this.r />
  ‘Can you tell us about the journey from the start?’

  ‘Paris. Gare de Lyon. A steward found my place and showed me to my carriage. I was wearing dark glasses and walking with a stick and rather enjoying the fact that people were falling over themselves to be of assistance to me. Everyone assumed I was completely blind, of course, with the stick as well. Not proud of it but it did give me a sort of awful advantage over people. They thought I couldn’t see but I actually could, and quite well. Not quite as good as being an invisible man but almost. Another advantage was that I could stare at pretty girls if I wanted to for as long as I liked and no one would think I was being rude. And in my compartment there were two girls worth staring at!’

  ‘Two?’

  ‘Yes. In some ways similar, in most very different. Not often you’re closeted for several hours with two such good-looking young things! You’d need to have been in hospital – as I was – for two years to imagine how much I appreciated it! There was Alice Conyers, English, on her way to India. I remember she was dowdily dressed even for an English girl and then later I understood she was in mourning for her parents who were not long dead of the flu. Quite a chatterbox but a real charmer, Alice, and obviously driving her companion, a Miss Benson, mad! Now she was counting the miles!’ Simpson shook his head sadly. ‘And she wasn’t to know it but there weren’t all that many left for her. She died in the crash.’

  ‘And the second young woman?’

  ‘Completely different in style! Older, though not by much I’ve since thought, French, expensively dressed – Worth or Chanel or somebody of that quality – woman of the world, you’d say. She spoke good English with a very attractive French accent – when Alice let her get a word in edgeways. She was on her way to stay with friends in Nice for the season. Isabelle de Neuville – that was her name.’