Ragtime in Simla

by Barbara Cleverly

  ‘Where’s Charlie Carter?’ said Joe.

  ‘Here!’ said a voice, and a weary and dishevelled Charlie Carter rode into the circle of torchlight.

  * * *

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  « ^ »

  Sir George Jardine, resplendent in a quilted smoking-jacket whose pocket bore the insignia of a long defunct Cambridge dining club, was ensuring that all the final touches were complete and in order. He was giving a small dinner party. A dinner party for four. A partie carrée, he called it to himself. The perfect size. And no women.

  An amontillado with the turtle soup, a light burgundy with the saddle of mutton (he’d ordered up four bottles from the cellar and now gave instructions for two to be opened), a mont-bazillac with the fabulous water ice for which the Residence was famed and a good Stilton assisted down by a glass of 1910 port by Williams, Standring. ‘Yes! That should be enough.’ And he gave instructions that his guests as they arrived be shown straight to the library, the windows of which stood open to the balcony and the balcony open to the moon and to the murmurs of the town.

  The first to arrive was Joe Sandilands. ‘Good evening, Sir George,’ he said easily. ‘This is very kind of you. A little cooler this evening, perhaps?’

  ‘That’s all the flannel you’re allowed, young Sandilands,’ said Sir George. ‘I won’t anticipate but I’m expecting some direct and straight-from-the-shoulder explaining.’

  Joe had long learnt that it was unwise to let Sir George get away with anything and he said, ‘Dash it! I was hoping for a good dinner. The last few days have been rather austere. A few campaign biscuits don’t go a very long way’

  ‘Have a glass of sherry,’ said Sir George, ‘and don’t try it on with me!’

  Next to come and arriving together were Charlie Carter and Edgar Troop, the latter perhaps a little embarrassed to find himself comfortably at the heart of the Simla establishment and in company with citizens of such impeccable respectability. His ‘Good evening, Sir George’ was a little over-affable as Charlie Carter’s had been a little over-deferential.

  ‘Good evening! Good evening!’ said Sir George. ‘Delightful occasion! Thought we’d have dinner straight away.’

  He picked up and tinkled a little silver bell. ‘Sherry? Or if you prefer a madeira? I find it a little heavy these spring nights but do please help yourselves.’ And, to Joe, ‘Saw your friend Jane Fortescue today. Asked to be remembered to you.’ And to Charlie Carter, ‘Those girls of yours did well in the potato race at the gymkhana yesterday. Sorry you weren’t there. I really enjoyed it.’ And to Edgar Troop, ‘While we’re waiting, do please take the long chair. Kind to saddle sores, you’ll find.’

  None of them spoke, all looking at him warily. ‘So good of you fellows to come at such short notice. Perhaps I don’t need to tell you – you’re all in serious trouble. You’re not under arrest, of course, but the only reason why you’re not under arrest is that with Charlie in handcuffs, there’d be no one to arrest you!’

  They all took their seats around the table and, as though by rehearsal, shook out in unison large table napkins.

  ‘But to start at the end and work back from there… one of you gunned down Rheza Khan? No particular loss! Deplorable fellow! Arms aren’t the only thing he’s moved across the border. Scallywag if ever I knew one but nevertheless an episode that stands in need of some explanation. Influential man, Rheza Khan. Considerable following in the Hills. Vast consignment of arms on its way north under the eyes of the police and, worst of all, a deplorable young woman, guilty beyond question of pulling off the most bare-faced fraud in the history of the Indian Empire and more than suspected of complicity in no fewer than two murders — ’

  ‘Possibly three,’ said Joe.

  ‘We shall get on a little bit faster, Sandilands,’ said Sir George repressively, ‘if you don’t interrupt. As I say, this bare-faced miscreant allowed, possibly even encouraged, to slip quietly away under your benign gaze.’

  ‘Not my benign gaze,’ said Charlie happily, appreciatively sipping Sir George’s admirable burgundy. ‘I wasn’t there at the time.’

  ‘No indeed! Forty miles away at the time, I understand, searching railway sidings. Looking the other way? I’ve marked you down as an accessory,’ said Sir George.

  ‘Could I ask,’ said Edgar Troop, ‘how you know these things, sir?’

  ‘You’re not stupid, Troop! Apart from myself, possibly the only person in this room who is not – so I don’t need to tell you that any group containing half a dozen or so in this town is likely to contain one of my agents. Charlie, I understand, had twelve policemen with him – need I say more? You must not assume you are the only man in Simla with interesting things to tell me.’

  ‘But there were no witnesses conveniently placed when Alice shot Rheza Khan,’ Joe said mildly. ‘Apart from myself, of course, so you’ll just have to hear and accept my version of the killing, sir.’

  Sir George sighed impatiently. ‘Very well, Sandilands. Why don’t you tell us your version of the events? Your memory of them? Illuminated, no doubt, by hindsight.’

  All listened intently as Joe recounted the outline of his carefully rehearsed story.

  Turning to Edgar Troop, Sir George asked, ‘Now, tell me, Troop, how much of this litany of lapses are you able to corroborate? Tell me first – did you leave undiscovered the knife in Rheza Khan’s boot?’

  ‘I am responsible, yes, sir,’ said Edgar uncomfortably. ‘I searched both prisoners.’

  ‘It was a most remarkable knife,’ Joe explained. ‘Very slender with a six-inch blade. It fitted down the seam of the boot – the handle was part of a boot pull-on – it was virtually undetectable. Very clever!’

  He fell silent at a glower from Sir George. ‘And the next virtually undetectable item was a gun. You allowed Alice to retain – uninspected – a hat containing a revolver but, as it transpires according to Joe’s account, this lapse had laudable consequences. If we are to believe it — ’ he paused for a moment, ‘and why would we not? – she saved Joe’s life by pulling this gun and shooting Rheza Khan dead. Then, while he and Edgar run around like headless chickens, Miss Alice leaps nimbly through a window and makes off into the sunset, saddlebags stuffed with her ill-gotten gains, having had the forethought first to run your horses off? Am I getting it right, Edgar?’

  ‘More or less, Sir George, more or less.’

  ‘And the question which we should all be asking ourselves – and perhaps Joe will have an answer – is why should Alice, in unexpected possession of a gun and with two chaps at her mercy to choose from, put her bullet in her comrade in crime rather than in the police officer whose avowed intention is to haul her back in chains to face justice?’

  All remained silent waiting for the next thrust.

  ‘I’m sure we’re all grateful to Alice. She saved us a little trouble in shooting Rheza Khan but will someone tell me why she should do that? Her associate, her partner? Her interests and his were one, were they not? I’ll tell you why,’ he went on, answering his own question. ‘She’d raised Rheza Khan up to a position of special power in the firm. He’d started out in a relatively humble position, in spite of his background and family wealth, in ICTC. Alice spotted his potential; she saw he could go all the way. And he did. He had authority and prestige, money and unshakeable status. Without Alice’s support he would have been nothing in Simla commerce and society. He owed all to her and she trusted him without question. It was more than she could easily bear that he should have – and with great success – played his own game. Another man to have failed her. Used her and failed her. It cost him his life.’

  ‘ “Tis the strumpet’s plague, To beguile many and be beguiled by one,” ’ Joe murmured. ‘I think there was more to it than the knowledge that he’d deceived her in the matter of the gun-running.’

  ‘Ah, yes, Sandilands, your theory that there was some romantic alliance between those two? I hear no evidence of that from any other quarter
but it wouldn’t surprise me. Nasty piece of work, Rheza Khan, though quite seductive I would have thought.’

  Edgar Troop poured himself a further glass of wine and passed the decanter to Charlie Carter. ‘I don’t believe it,’ he said. ‘I don’t believe that Alice was romantically interested in Rheza Khan. In fact I’ll go further – I don’t think she was interested in men at all.’

  ‘Are you perhaps obliquely telling us that on some occasion or occasions unspecified you found her inappropriately uninterested in you? Now, Joe, perhaps you have something to add to this debate? Very taking little thing, Alice.’

  ‘I pass,’ said Joe.

  Sir George’s generous grey eyebrows rose in query. ‘The deputy police superintendent passes! We must return to you, Edgar, for further illumination.’

  ‘I believe,’ said Edgar Troop shaking his head, “she had many admirers. And, yes, all right, I’ll agree, myself amongst them.‘ He turned to Joe. ‘Yourself amongst them too possibly, Sandilands?’

  ‘All right,’ said Sir George, ‘since this seems to be the fashion, I will add myself to this list. But, to get a dispassionate view, Carter, since you seem to be the only man in Simla proof to her charms – what have you to say on this subject?’

  ‘I agree with Edgar. The only person she was at ease with in Simla, the only person she did not deceive and manipulate, was her friend Marie-Jeanne Pitiot.’

  ‘Are you suggesting…?’ The eyebrows rose again.

  ‘I think I have an insight into that particular relationship,’ said Joe. ‘When we were staging the seance routine I remember Minerva Freemantle saying that Alice returned week after week in the hope of contacting her mother. Alice herself told me that her mother had died when she was eleven, leaving her to be brought up by her cold, uncaring and ambitious father. The first in a long line of men to betray and abuse her. Marie-Jeanne is much older than Alice – I think she sees her as a mother-replacement. Perhaps the only person in India or the world that she can truly trust. And since Alice has totally disappeared I would think it sensible to keep a watch on Marie-Jeanne because it is to her that Alice will go, I think, to find shelter.’

  Charlie Carter added eagerly, ‘That’s taken care of, Sir George. I have had men posted outside her house for the last three days and I have had the house and her warehouse searched.’

  ‘Your stable-door-shutting techniques are second to none,’ Sir George said. ‘And what does Marie-Jeanne have to say about all this? I assume that you have interviewed her?’

  ‘Seems to have nothing to hide – well, we know she hasn’t because the search was pretty thorough. Says she hasn’t seen Alice for at least a week. She wanted to know if we were keeping her a prisoner, surrounding her house with troops, and gave us notice that she’s intending to leave Simla tomorrow. She has a long-standing engagement in Bombay and has booked her ticket. She said she wouldn’t object if a policeman accompanied her if I wanted to send one along. I think she was being ironic, sir.’

  Clever, confident Marie-Jeanne. Helpful on the surface, Joe thought but, given her strong loyalties to Alice, surely she would make some attempt to help her friend? Joe decided that there was one more call he should make before his time in Simla was up.

  Sir George sighed. ‘Go on, Carter, tell us what other steps you have taken to trail after your light-footed quarry.’

  Businesslike, Carter replied, ‘Alice has two ways of getting out of the country. On the narrow gauge rail from Joginder Nagar and on to Amritsar or doubling back to Simla and getting out in a tonga or the Toy Train to Kalka and on to Delhi.’

  ‘Was there no sign of her on the Simla road when you came hot-footing it to the rescue up the mountain?’

  ‘No, sir. But it would have been very easy for her to hide herself along the route when she caught sight of the patrol.’

  ‘Yes,’ drawled Sir George, ‘well, you were certainly visible. From miles away, I should think. A squadron of Bengal Lancers, Slater’s Horse I believe, armed to the teeth and clattering along in the dark preceded by a dozen flare carriers and, if I know anything about those popinjays in Slater’s, singing the Eton Boating Song! Yes, she’d have seen you coming. So she could by now, three full days after the drama, be safely back and hiding in Simla or anywhere else for that matter. What about the other exit?’

  ‘All passengers taking the train from Joginder Nagar have their identity checked, sir. So far no European woman has tried to get on the train.’ He passed a list of passengers to Sir George.

  ‘And what about the exits from Simla?’

  ‘They likewise are being watched. The papers of every passenger are checked both in Simla and Kalka. I have men stationed on the tonga road and they too check all passengers. So far nothing.’ He passed over another list. ‘Not many leaving Simla of course at this time of year which makes our job easy. Mostly people are flooding in.’

  Sir George inspected the list. ‘Mmm… six tax-inspectors, five opium smugglers, four French nuns, three box-wallahs, two brigadiers,’ he paraphrased, ‘but no partridge in this pear tree. Keep shaking the branches, Carter!’

  ‘Doesn’t surprise me,’ said Edgar Troop suddenly grim. ‘You’re looking in the wrong place. She had two more hours of daylight when she rode off into the wilderness. Not long enough to reach any civilized part or even shelter. She would have been riding a tired horse through dangerous country whichever route she took. Bandits… wild animals… rough terrain. Wouldn’t care to do it alone myself, even armed to the teeth. Alice didn’t have a rifle with her – she only had her little pop-gun. Wouldn’t scare off a monkey let alone a leopard. So, the other chance which none of you has mentioned is that Alice may be dead!’ He looked from one to the other and suddenly his large red face was haggard in the candlelight. ‘She may well be dead,’ he repeated. ‘Can’t think why you don’t all acknowledge it.’

  There was a moment’s silence as all did acknowledge it.

  ‘Hmm,’ said Sir George. ‘If so –

  ‘Now boast thee, Death,

  In thy possession lies

  A lass unparalleled.’

  * * *

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  « ^ »

  Summer 1922

  In the moment of waking, Joe Sandilands could not work out where he was. A distant and regular underfloor throb accompanied by the cry of a passing sea-bird told him that he was on board a ship. But what ship and why he could not for the moment decide. A dazzle of sunshine reflected in the ceiling a few feet above his face told him that it was early morning, the breakfast tray at his elbow – a dish of croissants and a white china coffee pot – reminded him at last that he was on one of the few remaining French liners which ran from Bombay to Marseilles. A slight but insistent headache reminded him that, celebrating his escape from the confusions of crime-prevention in India, he’d had too much to drink the night before.

  He was glad to be on a French boat. P&O were grand and formal but French boats were domestic, comfortable and informal. Furthermore, not many English people travelled this way and, in all the circumstances, on his present journey Joe was glad of the anonymity until, from Marseilles, he could run straight home to England by train and into the safe and predictable confines of his regular London life. ‘I’ve had enough India,’ he’d said to himself. ‘Yes, definitely enough India.’ He searched his mind. Any regrets? He found he was delighted – relieved and delighted – to be out of the shade of George’s umbrella. ‘Another month and I’d have become a performing poodle at the Residence!’ He spared a moment to think of Charlie Carter. ‘The Good Centurion’ he decided. ‘A bon copain if ever I had one. Could we have worked on together? Years of steady police work in the sun?’ It was for a moment a tempting thought. But at the last, London beckoned. ‘Okay. That’s it. Charlie’ll be okay.’

  And Edgar? What about Edgar Troop? The eternal mercenary. The gun perpetually for sale. The world was changing. Would there always be a place for the likes of Edgar? He decided that there wo
uld. There must have been hundreds of Edgars in John Company’s India, designed to survive. Yes! Edgar would survive.

  A glance to the right to take in the adjoining bedside table with its twinned breakfast tray told him that he was not alone and an exploring hand, encountering a warm female presence, confirmed this. Tentatively he whispered, ‘Good morning.’ And, after a moment’s thought, ‘Bonjour, ma belle.’

  He arranged himself on one elbow and with an only slightly unsteady hand poured himself out a cup of coffee and began to sip. The excellence of the coffee, if nothing else, would have confirmed that he was not on a steamer of the Peninsular and Oriental Steam Navigation Company. The quality of the champagne too had been exceptional and the amounts served by the captain, at whose table he’d dined, copious. They had all drunk too much, the passengers apparently determined to make their first night on the Indian Ocean a memorable one. The captain had held a small reception for a selected eight guests. As they began to arrive, some singly and some in couples and all French, the captain relaxed on hearing Joe chatting comfortably with them in their own language.

  ‘My dear Commander,’ he had said, ‘how fortunate we are that you speak French so well! Believe me, it is a most unusual accomplishment in an Englishman. Your countrymen can speak Hindustani, it would appear, and any one of a hundred native Indian languages with ease but French they do not deign to learn. And, like a good host, I had taken the trouble to invite the one other English passenger we have aboard to join us tonight so that you would have one person at least to talk to. I understand you also have travelled recently from Simla?’

  As Joe nodded cautiously the captain had caught sight of the last guest to appear and had extended arms in welcome. Joe stared in amazement, the five other male guests in open admiration. With a warm smile of recognition for Joe, she listened carefully to the captain’s introductions and acknowledged that she and Joe were already well known to each other. After this auspicious beginning and after four hours sampling the hospitality of the Duc de Bourgogne, and along with the prevailing holiday mood, it had seemed entirely natural that, on escorting his partner back to her cabin, she should have offered him a brandy and that he should have accepted.