by Guy Adams
"Likewise." Ashe was relieved – if surprised – to hear the man's name, it would appear that he might get this conversation under control at last. "Forgive me, but are you Walsingham, the botanist?"
"One and the same." Walsingham's gruff manner thawed slightly. "Here on behalf of the British Society taking samples of medicinal herbs. I'm sorry but if we've met…"
"We haven't, but we have a friend in common, Roger Carruthers?"
At the mention of Carruthers' name all animosity vanished from Walsingham. "My dear fellow! I've known Carruthers for years, a pleasure to make your acquaintance!" Walsingham shook Ashe's hand again, this time with a genuine vigour. "What are the odds on two such souls meeting in such circumstances?"
What indeed? Ashe thought. He was wondering how bizarre it was that his train should go out of its way to avoid his original destination and drop him here, mere feet away from the man he was after. Was Sophie helping them somehow?
"My being here isn't a complete coincidence," Ashe admitted. "In fact I'm engaged in business on Carruthers' behalf."
"Really?" Walsingham replied. "I had no idea he had interests in Tibet."
Neither does he, thought Ashe, not yet anyway.
2.
His discussion with Carruthers before leaving for the past had been unsurprisingly detailed. After all, if there was one thing Carruthers enjoyed it was discussing himself.
"Walsingham's a fine chap," Carruthers had said, "as far as any man that can get excited over moss can be described as such. His heart's in the right place though he can kill a dinner party stone dead with his interminable waffle about flora. It was him that told me about the box."
Which had marked Walsingham out as the man Ashe needed to meet.
"He wrote to me," Carruthers had continued, "claiming to have met a man by the name of Mark Spencer. Apparently this fellow had traced the artifact to a Buddhist temple in one of the corners of Tibet less marked by the British interest."
"By which you mean invasion force?"
"Well, yes, I suppose so, though I will say that that was never the intention of many of the men involved. We were just eager to see what the hitherto unexplored country could offer. I suppose many indecencies have been committed in the name of curiosity. Anyway, I had no knowledge of the gentleman mentioned which made the matter all the more intriguing. Walsingham had me endorsed by his fellows at the British Museum and I made my way out there as fast as a boat could carry me."
"Well," Ashe had noted, "at least one mystery is now solved for you."
"Really?"
"The identity of this unknown acquaintance." Ashe held up the box. "It must have been me."
"Hmm." Carruthers had nodded. "Rum business time travel."
3.
"Once the snow has settled a little," said Walsingham, "I'll lead you down to the monastery and introduce you to the rest of my party. At the very least we can make sure you have a bed and some warm provisions. The monks bend over backwards to ensure we're comfortable. Though I can't say I take to the tea much, oily stuff, like drinking paraffin. They swear it's good for you."
"Are they not opposed to your presence then?" asked Ashe.
"Opposed? Oh, being Westerners you mean? No, the Abbot's a friendly sort, head in the clouds of course, but the perfect host. The soldiers we've encountered on our travels have been a bit more trigger happy but everyone's accommodating enough for the most part, Younghusband was sensible enough to release most of his Tibetan prisoners once our interests here were endorsed by the Dalai Lama so everyone's on the same side."
"We'll see how long it lasts," Ashe replied, only too aware that it wouldn't. Time travel turned one into such a know-it-all.
"Our military companion shares your doubt," said Walsingham. "Major Kilworth, he's somewhat uneasy about the whole affair."
"I thought there was nothing a military man liked more than occupation."
"He was stationed in India for years and, unlike many of his fellows, came to sympathise with the locals."
"A military man who has lost his taste for colonisation… I bet that attitude has helped his career no end."
Walsingham smiled. "He's stuck nursemaiding a botanist and his party, make of that what you will."
"What's the purpose of the expedition?" asked Ashe.
"We're exploring the pharmacological value of the Tibetan medicine. These chaps swear by their brews and the medical profession is always eager to add new munitions to its armoury. I'm the botanist of course, and Lawrence Rhodes is the chemist. We also have Doctor Andrew Haywood with us, though I must confess it's not always a pleasure. The man's a wreck… cold sweats and delusions when he's at his worst."
"Sounds helpful."
"Claims it's altitude sickness but there's a suspicion that he has a taste for his own medicine cabinet."
"I'm surprised you put up with him."
"Can't really send him home can we? He was the measure of civility on our voyage but since taking residency here he grows from bad to worse. It's a damned mess… my wife has been under the weather recently but she refuses to let him anywhere near her. Can't say I blame her."
"You've brought your wife with you?" Ashe found the idea startling given the politics of the time.
"Oh she's a bright spark, my Helen, wouldn't dream of waiting dutifully behind for my return. Besides, she has always taken an interest in my work, her knowledge would put many lesser botanists to shame."
"Taught her all you know."
"I suppose I have," Walsingham smiled. "Besides, it makes these long expeditions all the more palatable to have her by my side. A marriage withers in isolation don't you think?"
"Indeed I do," admitted Ashe, though he couldn't lay claim to any personal experience. There was an air of nervousness to Walsingham when he discussed his wife that Ashe found curious. For all his sentimental words, there was discomfort there. His "bright spark" was not the source of pleasure he made her out to be.
"I think we can risk moving now," Walsingham said, poking his head out of the cave. "The light will be gone soon and the last thing we want is to be stuck out here in the dark." He pulled his pack on and tightened his scarf around his face. "Do you have no equipment?" he asked, his voice muffled by the thick wool.
I didn't think I'd need any for such a brief trip, thought Ashe, I certainly never intended to go trekking over mountains. "I'm travelling light," he said. "Left the main party just over the last ridge." He hoped Walsingham didn't question him further. Next time he should prepare a cover story.
"A proper Sherpa, eh?" Walsingham replied, heading out into the open air.
They made their way out onto the narrow ledge, Walsingham leading the way. "The journey is a short one," Walsingham continued, "you should be fine. I have rope if we come unstuck en route."
The ledge widened out a few yards from the cave and the going was as easy as Walsingham promised. Ashe couldn't help but be reminded of his recent trek within the house, where he, Carruthers, Miles and Penelope had travelled up the side of a mountain rising – in typically preposterous fashion – within the walls of one of the sitting rooms. Then they had been lucky enough to have a staircase to follow and regular pitstops within furnished caves.
"It should only take us half an hour or so," shouted Walsingham. "Once we get around the next bend you'll see the monastery. I make it a point never to travel too far from the base on my own, once you get further afield the climb is far too dangerous to be attempted without roped support."
"No need to make your wife a widow in the name of botany," Ashe replied.
"Indeed not."
After a few minutes the landscape below revealed itself. Further down, in the shelter of a narrow valley, a building pulled its stone walls around itself as if for warmth. Banners fluttered on parapets, shivering from exposure. A bell sounded, ringing around the central courtyard and calling the monks that lived there to prayer. Prayer was good, Ashe thought, bodies huddled in the fug of incense fires as they chanted. Even if nobo
dy was listening it took the chill off.
"Sounds like evening prayer's started," he said to Walsingham.
"They never stop," Walsingham replied. "A more devout band cannot be imagined."
"I suppose there's not much else to do up here," said Ashe.
"Hello," said Walsingham, "who's this?"
Ahead of them, no more than a silhouette in the dimming light, a figure was making its way towards them from the monastery gates.
"Nigel," a voice shouted as the figure drew closer, "is that you?"
"Sounds like Helen," Walsingham said. "What is she playing at coming out here?" He pulled his scarf away from his mouth, the better to project his voice. "Helen?" he called. He began to trot faster down the mountainside, clearly concerned as to what had brought his wife out into the cold.
"Nigel," Helen sighed with palpable relief once they were face to face, "I came out to fetch you, something terrible's happened to Rhodes."
"What is it?" Walsingham asked. "Some sort of accident?"
Helen shook her head. "I wish." She struggled for a moment, as if uncertain how to express the news. Eventually she took the no-frills approach: "Someone's murdered him."
4.
Ashe felt a sinking feeling in his stomach, his simple plans were clearly about to complicate themselves.
"Who's this?" Helen asked, looking at Ashe with undisguised suspicion.
"What?" Walsingham was still trying to assimilate the news that one of his party was dead. "Oh… Mark Spencer, a colleague of Roger's, we met a little way up the mountain."
"Really?" Helen replied. "How bizarre."
"I'm actually here on Roger's behalf," Ashe explained. "I have an artifact that may be of interest to him."
"We'll hear all about it later," she replied. "We have more important matters on hand for now."
"Of course," Ashe nodded. "May I suggest we keep moving; you can explain everything once we're in the comfort of the monastery."
"Spencer's right," agreed Walsingham, taking Helen's arm and leading her back the way she had come. "I can't believe the major let you out here on your own as it is."
"He could hardly claim I would be safer at the monastery," she replied, "and our good doctor's suffering from one of his 'blue funks' again."
"Dear Lord, the man's a liability." Walsingham was in shock, stumbling along in a twitchy state that wasn't due to the cold. "I can't believe it," he said, his voice quiet, almost lost beneath the increasing volume of the monk's chanting. "Rhodes dead… but, darling, you must be overreacting… it can hardly be murder." He was asserting a sense of calming logic. "There must be an alternative explanation."
"We found him in the stables with an ice pick in the back of his head," Helen countered. "He didn't end up like that by losing his footing."
She was a cold hearted creature, Ashe thought. There seemed to be little sense of sadness at the death of one of her colleagues, more an irritation that her life had been cluttered up by the fact.
They reached the entrance to the monastery, a tall set of wooden doors fixed into the stone wall. It made Ashe think of a Medieval castle, barricaded to repel invaders. Helen yanked at the cord of an iron bell, its chime bouncing between the walls of the valley as if the noise were a creature gleeful to be let loose. After a few moments the door opened, a slender monk stepping to one side to let them enter. He bowed as they filed past, his pointed hat looming towards their faces. He gave the ground a double tap with the base of the long pole he carried, a fighting stick, Ashe assumed.
"Thank you," said Walsingham, giving a rather selfconscious bow in return.
The door opened into a central courtyard. Ashe turned slowly, getting the lay of the land. A pair of monks worked their way around the perimeter, lighting heavy sconces in preparation for the night ahead. There was the thick smell of manure coming from what Ashe took to be the stables, a small, two-level outbuilding to the left of the courtyard. "That was where the body was found?" he asked, pointing.
"Yes," Helen answered, "though we've taken him upstairs."
"Our accommodation is directly above," Walsingham explained, "what it lacks in pleasant odour it makes up for in warmth."
"Not sure you should have moved the body," Ashe commented.
"Oh really?" Helen retorted. "And who are you to have an opinion one way or the other?"
"Helen!" Walsingham snapped. "That is no way to address our guest."
"Forgive me Nigel," she replied, "but I would hope you understand that the notion of a stranger appearing on the mountainside at the same time one of our party meets his end is a source of great concern for me. It seems somewhat coincidental don't you think? I mean, what are the odds of you bumping into the gentleman up there? This is a sparsely inhabited valley in Tibet not Oxford Street."
"I understand your concern," Ashe admitted, thinking quickly before he lost all sense of credence amongst the party. "My appearance here at the same time as your own was completely intentional. As I partly explained to your husband I came here with the interests of Roger Carruthers at heart. I've been researching the history of an artifact that would interest him. I traced it here and, learning that your party were also in residence, it made sense to coincide my visit with yours. I left my main party up the mountain there, planning to drop in for an hour or two before rejoining them. Roger assured me that I would be made welcome."
"And so you are," Walsingham insisted.
"It is a wonder to me that Roger didn't see fit to warn us of your impending arrival," Helen noted, though it was clear that – whether through deference to her husband's feelings or her own – she was willing to let go of some of her hostility. "That would have avoided any misunderstandings, would it not?"
"I left some time after your own departure so unfortunately…"
"It is of no matter," insisted Walsingham, losing his patience. "Can we please deal with the business in hand? I want to know what happened to Rhodes."
Helen gave him an irked glance – it was clear to Ashe that this was a partnership she was in control of, however much that may be against the period's norms, and she didn't like being snapped at. "Forgive me if I thought we were discussing just that."
Walsingham didn't rise to the comment, following his wife up a creaking wooden staircase to a heavy Dutch door. She yanked on the handle, grunting as it held fast in its frame. "It's locked. The major no doubt."
"He's only concerned with our safety, dear, that is, after all, his job."
Ashe expected Helen to make the obvious comment that, seeing as one of them had died, the major wasn't doing his job very well. If the comment occurred to her, she kept it to herself, hammering on the door and waiting in silence to be let in.
After a few moments there was the solid crack of a bolt being drawn. It was slammed into place with military precision so that nobody could be in doubt that the door had been well and truly opened.
The major's face appeared within the revealed slice of candlelight. "Oh, Walsingham, it's you." He stepped back to allow them room to enter.
"And you are?" he asked Ashe, his eyes narrowing over a Roman nose that had sneezed salt and pepper curls over the lower half of his face.
"Mark Spencer," Walsingham said perhaps determined not to let Ashe's relationship with Major Kilworth get off on the same wrong foot as it had with his wife. "He is a colleague of Roger Carruthers and is here under his recommendation."
"You've picked a bad time to join us," the major said to Ashe, "as you have no doubt heard."
"Indeed."
"Where is he?" Walsingham asked.
"Through there," the major answered, nodding towards a door in the corner, "Helen has donated her accommodation for the time being."
"Better that than have a corpse in the middle of the room," she said. Now that Ashe could see her clearly he was less struck by her coldness. There was a vacuousness to her gaze as she picked at the wool of her scarf as if trying to remove invisible insects from its weave. She was in shock and n
ot half as strong as she had been trying to suggest. Easier to deal with her dismissive comments than a tearful breakdown, Ashe supposed.
"Has the doctor examined him?" asked Walsingham.
The major gave a pointed look at them and shook his head. "Our medical expert is suffering from another bout of his 'altitude sickness'," the skepticism in his voice couldn't have been clearer. "'Physician heal thyself', eh? He's sleeping it off in his bedroll."
"Much use the blasted man is," Walsingham said. "He's more of a hindrance than a help."
"Can I take a look at the body?" asked Ashe.
They looked at him, Walsingham hopeful, the others still wary.
