Ragtime in Simla

by Barbara Cleverly

  Alice had recovered her self-possession; only a tremor in the voice and a trembling hand remained of the storm she had passed through.

  Joe held her firmly by the shoulders and turned her face to his. ‘Isobel,’ he said gently, ‘Isobel Newton. It’s no use. You can’t fool me. And before you think of shooting me to get rid of a witness, let me tell you that Carter knows and, of course, the man you met again tonight at the seance…’

  To Joe’s surprise she stopped sniffling, sat up, favoured him with a broad smile and shrugged her shoulders. ‘Oh, well! It was worth a last shot, I suppose!’ She gave him a level glance. ‘You should have waited a little longer, Joe, I was going to make it worth your while to forget about all this. But tell me – who was that – the thing that appeared in the doorway? The only man I have ever met with whom that creature had the slightest resemblance is long dead.’

  ‘I can promise you he isn’t dead. Nor yet was he undead. His name is Simpson. Captain Colin Simpson and, by a miracle, he is as alive as you or I. It was a trick. It was a put-up job. It was a trick on you.’

  ‘Simpson?’ said Alice slowly. ‘Simpson!’

  ‘Yes. And a member of a select band. A very select band. A band of those who survived the Beaune rail crash. Now are you getting it?’

  ‘Christ, yes!’ said Alice. ‘The man in the railway carriage! He still lives? Can it be? And what the hell was he doing here?’

  ‘I’ll exchange information for information,’ said Joe. ‘But, in the meantime…’ He lit two cigarettes and handed one to Isobel. He unscrewed the cap of his flask and passed it across to her. ‘If ever a girl needed a swig of aqua vitae, I suspect it is you so help yourself. And why don’t you begin at the beginning?’

  ‘The beginning?’ said Isobel bitterly. ‘The beginning is a long time ago and a long way away from here!’

  ‘It’ll do,’ said Joe. ‘The night is young.’

  ‘We could begin in an impoverished Surrey vicarage if you like,’ said Isobel. ‘With a cold and ambitious father, a mother who died when I was eleven. Or we could begin in a bleak girls’ school in the Home Counties. Or would you like to start in the south of France when our heroine is seventeen? We’d be talking about the same person. We’d be talking about me. It was a very long journey, ending – though ending is not the word – here in a private and concealed Simla garden.’

  ‘Good God,’ said Joe, looking round in astonishment. ‘Garden? Private garden? Whose? Where?’

  ‘Old Simla’s full of gardens, big and small. The house this belonged to is gone but the garden remains. It belongs to Rheza Khan’s family. They are a very well-to-do family – you might almost say tribe – with extensive lands north towards the Nepalese border but they’ve always kept what you might call a town house here in Simla.They keep the garden in order – as a sort of gesture of family piety. I come here sometimes. It’s a peaceful place. Away from everybody. If I want to see someone privately it’s always here and here we are – private.’

  She took the proffered flask from Joe’s hand and drank. She coughed and spluttered and drank again.

  ‘Well, the beginning? Born of poor but honest parents… I won’t deceive you, Joe. They weren’t particularly poor. Thinking of my detestable father not particularly honest either but he’s done pretty well for himself.’

  Joe’s mind was racing. ‘Newton?’ he said, the picture of an austere and influential bishop of the Church of England coming to mind. ‘Not… ? Are we by any chance talking about “Retribution Newton”? And he’s your father?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘that Bishop Newton. The scourge of sinners. Just a rector the last time I saw him. Difficult to live with, I think you’ll agree. But that’s jumping ahead and I said I’d begin at the beginning. It was a detestable childhood and it got worse after my mother died. I couldn’t wait to get away! But I had a stroke of luck. My father had an old friend, very rich, very much of the Church, very corseted and a great subscriber to my father’s good causes. Fallen altar pieces one day, fallen women the next! You know the sort of thing. She spent every winter in the south of France and she had a pathetic, quenched companion. Her name, almost inevitably, was Mildred but Mildred got measles and lo! Horror! Tragedy! Crisis! Mrs Hyde-Jellicoe had no one to accompany her on her winter trip to Nice and after more debate, discussion (praying if you can believe!), it was decided that I should fill the vacant slot and set off for the south of France. So, suitably admonished as to how to conduct myself and much to my father’s relief, off I went to carry Mrs Hyde-Jellicoe’s knitting about for her.’

  ‘And you went for it?’ said Joe.

  ‘Did I ever go for it! And, in the fullness of time, I ended up in an attic bedroom in a large Nice hotel only three flights of stairs away from Mrs Hyde-Jellicoe’s first-floor suite overlooking the sea and – no telephones in those days – a voice tube from her to me so that if she felt she needed a little glass of water in the night she could blow down it. A whistle would go off in my ear and I would come padding down three fights of stairs in my school dressing gown and see what was what. Not much of a life for a girl but anything was to be preferred to the Gothick splendours of St Simeon-under-Wychcroft, Surrey’

  ‘Yes,’ said Joe, considering. ‘I can imagine that it would be. And there you found yourself, enjoying the winter sunshine?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Isobel, ‘anything would have been better and one thing was – my employer was fabulously rich and there was throughout that winter and on into the spring an endless procession of her nieces, nephews, cousins, sisters, brothers-in-law, all eager to wind her wool, carry her parasol, escort her on gentle little walks down the Promenade des Anglais and all with but one idea.’

  ‘To inherit the berries?’

  ‘Exactly that! Amongst this mob of threadbare fortune hunters there was one who stood apart. I suppose he was a nephew – or he may have been a great-nephew. He was all right. I’d never met anyone like him before. He was a naval officer. He thought (and he taught me) that having a good time could be an end in itself. Hard to believe but such a thought had never entered my head! He was stationed in Malta. If you’ve got access to a navy pinnace whenever you want one, Malta’s not far from Nice and it occurred to me that he had a certain advantage over the other players. He had a certain advantage over me too.’

  ‘Don’t tell me,’ said Joe, ‘let me guess. He proved himself to be a honey-tongued seducer? Am I right?’

  ‘My, Commander! No wonder you occupy so prominent a place in the detective force! Nothing escapes you! And you’re right. I was undone. And before I gain your undeserved sympathy for the horrors of my lot – I’ll tell you – I had never until then enjoyed anything so much as being undone! He was very good fun. He was extremely amusing. He had lots and lots of rackety friends. He knew his way up and down the Côte d’Azur. His career was not very committing – I wouldn’t be at all surprised in those days if you explained to your commanding officer that you were playing a rich relative you wouldn’t get leave to do so! The navy was very like that in those pre-war days. So it went on but Nemesis stalked!’

  ‘Nemesis in the form of Mrs Hyde-Jellicoe?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Isobel with a laugh. ‘Came a night when the bloody voice tube didn’t work or I’d forgotten to put the whistle back in it – you can imagine the tableau! The door opens, and framed in the doorway, dressing-gowned and awful, my employer, his great-aunt, amazed and aghast to have imperially caught us in the act! In a trice – lost! Lost to him any chance he might have had of inheriting, lost to me, my job. I had, you see, taken my first step on the road to ruin. My employer made clear her intention of writing immediately to my father to apprise him of the fact that his daughter was a harlot! (I’d love to see that letter!) But I was damned if I’d hang about waiting for his reply. I must say Edwin – his name was Edwin – was very decent about it. I had my clothes and about thirty pounds, not much else. He gave me twenty-five pounds. All he had, I think. “Don’t want you to go s
hort, old girl,” he said.

  ‘Well, I did go short. Fifty-five pounds didn’t go far even in those days on the Riviera. I had no means of making a living and when I was reduced to my last few francs I decided to do what I had seen others doing. No, not what you’re thinking! Not yet at any rate… I started singing. There were lots of performers of different nationalities just singing in the streets. I hadn’t got a wonderful voice – well, you’ve heard me – but I was very pretty and fresh and I seemed to appeal to rich old gentlemen. I was making enough to survive by singing in front of the cafés for a couple of hours each evening. One evening I came upon a very jolly crowd who seemed to have taken over a café in the old town. They were foreign. I listened and identified their language as Russian. Well, I knew a Russian song or two — ’

  ‘That story about your singing master?’ Joe interrupted. ‘It was true then?’

  ‘Of course! I was brought up to tell the truth and I almost always do. So I thought, I’ll show you! I’ll get your attention! Russians are very romantic, you know, so I started to sing the most heart-rending song I knew. It worked! They wept! They joined in the chorus! They turned out their pockets for me – not that it did me much good – they were as destitute as I was, I think! But they took me into their group, they made much of me, they gave me supper. But more than that…’

  Her voice trailed away and Joe knew that she was thousands of miles and many years away from him.

  ‘One of them was a singer. A real singer. Feodor Korsovsky. He took me home with him that night and for the next year we were never apart. I loved him. He said he loved me.’

  ‘What separated you?’ Joe asked. His satisfaction at having guessed that Alice Conyers had been hiding a relationship with the Russian took second place to his curiosity as the story unfolded.

  Alice remained silent for a long time. ‘The Atlantic Ocean,’ she said finally. ‘Is that big enough or should I also mention the wife I was not aware he had in New York? And perhaps the Great War which kept him away from Europe for four years? Will that do?’ Her voice had taken on a sharp edge.

  ‘He kept the programme you scribbled on…’

  ‘Yes. That was quite a surprise… do you mind if I keep it? It means a lot to me.’

  ‘No,’ said Joe. ‘I suppose that’s all right. I’ll ask for it if I need it.’

  ‘So there I was alone again. Feodor had been offered a wonderful engagement in New York. He couldn’t afford to take me with him so he gave me what he had and I prepared to wait until he came back. He never did. I was hurt, of course, but more than that I was angry. But I knew exactly what to do. Amongst the friends that Edwin had introduced me to there was a commander RN. Almost a caricature – red face, roving eye, probably the most entirely amoral man I’ve ever met but friendly and rather attractive. Finding me as it were vacant, he was very ready to take me on and, indeed, according to a good Edwardian tradition, install me in a little sea-front flat in St Raphael.

  ‘The flat became a tremendous rendezvous for naval officers. I don’t suppose for a moment that Bertie was particularly faithful to me. I don’t recall that I was particularly faithful to him! I was having a really good time. But as the saying goes, All good things come to an end. This was 1914 and suddenly the coast was full of French army officers as mobilization gained ground. Some of them were very dashing – Zouaves, Spahis, even a contingent of the Légion Etrangère, all with money to spend, all glad of a welcome. But none so glad as Colonel Chasteley-Riancourt. Cavalry soldier, very grand. A perfide aristo if ever I saw one! He moved me out of the St Raphael flat into a little house he owned in the hills behind Monaco.’

  She paused. ‘Let me look at you, Joe. What do I see? Icy disapproval?’

  ‘Nothing of the sort,’ said Joe. ‘If you see anything at all you see fascination! Please don’t stop!’

  ‘Well, as I say, there we were living in Monaco. And, if Chas had a fault – what do I mean, if Chas had a fault? Chas had thousands of faults not the least of which was an inability to take his eyes off the roulette wheel and this was rather agony. I had to sit and watch thousands, millions of francs pouring through his fingers. Francs that would have been better bestowed on my little soft, scented hands! Have you ever met a compulsive gambler?’

  ‘Yes, I have,’ said Joe. ‘I shared a billet with one in France. They’re a race apart.’

  ‘Chas was very much of that race. He was very Old France, you know. Conventional in many ways and what in that exalted world do you do when you find yourself short of a few francs – you peel a picture off the wall and sell it. A Fragonard, a Lancret, perhaps even a Chardin. But of course, there he was in a flat in Monaco, not much to sell so what did he do…?’

  Joe thought he knew but, ‘Go on, then,’ he said, ‘what did he do?’

  For a moment the jaunty tone wavered. ‘Well, very practical man, Chas. Not perhaps romantic but certainly practical. He sold that for which he could get the best price. He sold me. I’ve often wondered for how much. My purchaser was a Belgian, Aristide Mézière, an arms manufacturer, rich as only sin can make you. His idea was to export me to Paris where he had a house on the Place Vendôme, recently acquired and needing a little exotic furniture. Good God! If that had lasted I might be the Baronne Mézière now!’

  ‘How old were you, Isobel?’ Joe asked quietly.

  ‘This was 1915 so I was eighteen or maybe nineteen.’

  ‘But you never made it to the Place Vendôme?’

  ‘No, I didn’t. Fate took a hand. In those days Fate was always taking a hand! Perhaps it still is.’

  She shivered slightly and looked up at Joe speculatively then snuggled closer, passing an arm under his jacket, seeking his warmth and closeness. He was conscious that she was wearing only a light silk dress and after the heat of the chase she must be cooling off rapidly. He enjoyed her touch and for a moment, perhaps more than a moment, his senses began to spin. He took off his jacket and draped it over her shoulders, putting his arm once again around her and effectively pinioning her arms to her sides. He had not forgotten that the woman in his arms was a crack shot and she was still holding a revolver in her right hand.

  ‘Suddenly there were no men left on the Côte d’Azur. No gaiety. Everything closed down. I decided to play my own game. I sold the little jewellery I had, took my maid and left for Paris. I put on a wedding ring and became a widow. I had decided to choose and not be chosen any longer. I set up in a smart apartment in the Avenue de l’Opéra and I chose the lovers I entertained. There were plenty of officers on leave constantly from the front. By this time I spoke French as one born there and very aristocratic French. I was decidedly a poule de luxe, Commander!’

  ‘And why did you find yourself on the Blue Train back to the south the year after the war ended?’

  ‘Obvious if you think for a moment! My lovers were dead or gone back to their homes to rebuild their lives. The world had changed for ever. There were many – genuine – widows in the market for a little love and protection (amateurs!), and the competition was fierce. I was again destitute. All I had left was my good clothes. I hadn’t even the money to pay for the services of a maid. I got a letter from an old friend who was recovering from war wounds in the south, in Nice. He asked me to join him. Even sent me a first class ticket.’

  ‘And then you met Alice Conyers?’

  ‘We were snaring a compartment. She had a great effect on me. So eager, so innocent, with everything to look forward to! She was not much younger than I was but there was a lifetime’s experience between us. She was on the brink of a new life with a fortune to come to her and a husband. And I – I felt as though I were at the end of my life, tired, disillusioned, used, knowing so much and having achieved so little. I envied her.’

  ‘So much that you stole her life?’

  ‘It wasn’t deliberate. It wasn’t thought out in any way. It was Fate, I do believe. An impulse. You have no idea what it feels like, or perhaps you have, Commander, to realize that you
are the only one to have survived such a horror. Fate, you see, had led me to the ladies’ room seconds before the crash. That saved my life. It was a small space and well padded and carpeted. I rattled around, of course, but in the confines of that space I was much more protected than everyone else.’

  She touched her face. ‘The mirror broke and sliced through my face, a few ribs were cracked and I sprained a wrist but really, I wasn’t as badly injured as I pretended to be. When I got free of the wreckage I stood and looked at the carnage. There was no one left alive but me. A baby was screaming for a while but then that too went silent. I should have been overwhelmed, distraught, but I wasn’t.’

  She wrinkled her forehead, anxious to convey accurately her feelings. ‘I felt elated, powerful, chosen. I of all had survived and I could do whatever came into my head. I walked about and looked at my fellow passengers. Alice Conyers, pretty little Alice was dead. Minutes ago she had everything and now she was no more than a broken doll. What a waste of a life! But I didn’t steal her life, Joe. It was presented to me. I found it torn and shattered in a rock-strewn ravine. I picked it up. I put it on. It fitted. You know what Napoleon said? He said, “I didn’t usurp the throne. I found the crown of France in the gutter and picked it up on the point of my sword.” That’s what it was like for me.’

  There was a very long pause in which it seemed to Joe she was wondering whether to proceed. At last she resumed and her voice had hardened. ‘You must realize that Alice Conyers was – nothing! A brainless little chatterbox. Completely without intelligence or experience. She had a certain amount of mouse-like charm but she was no more capable of running ICTC than a… a… spaniel! She could never have kept her feet in the shifting commercial politics of the firm. She would have married Reggie and been completely submerged by him. He would have milked the company and it would all have been a disaster.’