by Guy Adams
"Do you have medical experience, sir?" Helen asked.
"I have experience with violent death," Ashe admitted, and there was a good deal of truth to that.
"I'm not sure I find that reassuring," she replied though was clearly not concerned enough to argue further.
"There can be no harm in it," offered the major, "though the issue lies not so much with the departed Rhodes as ensuring the rest of us don't end up sharing his condition."
"The two aren't mutually exclusive," said Ashe, opening the door to the small side-room where the body lay.
"Allow me," said Walsingham, pushing ahead with a lit lantern. He hung it from an iron hook in the centre of the ceiling where it swung gently, throwing black, syrupy shadows across the walls. The ice pick was still in place, the shadow of its elevated handle turning the corpse into a sundial, telling the time against the straw covered floor.
"Whose is the pick?" asked Ashe.
"Mine," the major admitted, "though it scarcely means much, the equipment is all stored together in a bridle room just off the stables."
"So anyone could grab it?" Ashe clarified.
"Precisely."
"But why would they?" Ashe asked, squatting over the body.
"I'm sorry?"
"Motive," Ashe replied, squinting at Rhodes' face. He was a handsome chap, early thirties, with that look of the gentleman adventurer much favoured by Hollywood period movies.
"As much as I hate to say it," the major replied, "surely that's obvious?"
"Really?" Ashe looked up at him, trying to read his facial expressions in the dim light.
"One of the locals has issue with our presence."
"Issue enough to sneak up behind one of you and put several inches of steel in his head? I find that hard to imagine."
Walsingham crouched next to him. "Rhodes was often somewhat… expressive about his feelings towards the locals."
"He was a racist."
There was an awkward pause as the major glanced at Walsingham and his wife. "Not sure I know the term," he admitted. "He had no great love for foreigners if that's what you're driving at?"
Ashe shook his head, he'd forgotten how modern a word – or indeed concept – racism was.
"You make it sound like he was permanently abusing the monks," Helen commented. "That's hardly the case."
"Well, no…" the major admitted, "but he could be somewhat insensitive."
Only Victorians could see insensitivity as a crime worthy of murder, Ashe thought.
"It still seems slender motive to me," Ashe said, "but then it's none of my business."
He stood up, a little angry with himself for being drawn into the matter. If these people were picking one another off – certainly he didn't believe for a minute an over-sensitive Buddhist was behind the murder – then it was no business of his. Unless… a worrying thought occurred to him: what if the murderer attacked Walsingham next? If the man was dead he could hardly contact Carruthers and play out his role in the historical scheme of things. For all Ashe knew, it was only through his own involvement that the murderer was exposed and Walsingham preserved from harm. Or, of course, the opposite could be true and Ashe was putting all their lives at risk by involving himself.
Time travel was a pain in the ass.
"Without wishing to fall out with my husband again," said Helen, "we only have your word that this is no business of yours. For all we know you could have murdered him yourself."
"Before popping up the hill to introduce myself to your husband?"
"Well… yes."
"True, I suppose I could have. Equally your husband could have killed the man before returning to his researches and establishing an alibi."
"I say!" Walsingham was somewhat put out to find himself put in the frame.
"Just making a point, I'm not saying I think you did it for one moment – and I know for a fact that I had nothing to do with it – but, yes, if we are to be thorough about this we're potential suspects as much as anyone else."
"Have you told the Abbot?" Walsingham asked Kilworth.
"That rather presupposes he doesn't already know," his wife muttered.
"I thought it best to keep the situation to ourselves for the moment," said the major, "until we decided how to respond to it."
"That sounds like fighting talk," Ashe commented.
"Fighting talk?" the major raised an eyebrow at Ashe. "You have a most peculiar turn of phrase, sir."
"Spent a lot of time in distant climes," Ashe admitted. "You pick up the vernacular."
"More distant than Tibet?" Helen joked.
Ashe chose to say nothing. Just looking at Rhodes' dead body. "It's a cowardly injury," he commented finally.
"Cowardly?" the major pulled a moue, though the lustre of his beard did its best to spare anyone's feelings by concealing it. "Is not all murder cowardly?"
"You misunderstand," Ashe explained. "I wasn't making a moral point, I was making a practical one. The murder was committed from behind, with little fear of reprisal – you simply don't fight back after someone's put a pick in the back of your skull. Also, the assailant was intent on murder – you don't accidentally kill someone from behind with an ice pick. This wasn't a scuffle gone wrong."
"Yes 'Holmes'," Helen mocked.
Walsingham gave her an irritated glance. "Fair points, neither of which discount the possibility that it was one of the monks, surely?"
"True. One thing though: do all of the monks carry those fighting poles that the man at the gate had?"
"Many of them," the major admitted.
"Then it would be ludicrous to put that down in order to pick up an ice pick wouldn't it? A stout blow to the base of the skull with one of those would have just the same outcome."
"Perhaps we should see the abbot," admitted Walsingham. "I shall ask Kusang to arrange an audience."
"Kusang?" asked Ashe.
"Our interpreter and go-between, provided by the Museum," Walsingham explained. "A surly fellow but we'd be lost without him."
"Nobody else speaks Tibetan?"
"No." answered Helen.
"Then let's talk to Kusang."
5.
Kusang was found sitting in the shadows of the courtyard, wrapped in several animal skins and the reek of whisky. "If you are going to start killing one another," he said, "I am safer out here I think."
"What do you know about that?" asked Walsingham.
"I hear your Major shouting about it," the interpreter said. "An Englishman is not stealthy."
"We wish to consult with the abbot," Walsingham explained, not wanting to be drawn on the deficits of his military officer. "Can you request an audience?"
"I can request, but I will not blame him if he refuses. For all he knows one of you may stab him the minute you enter his quarters."
Walsingham was becoming tired of the insinuation that his party were a bloodthirsty liability to the rest of the monastery's safety. "He need fear nothing from us."
Kusang offered a smirk that turned into a gently alcoholic belch. "Give me five minutes," he said and shuffled off into the main building.
"I'm guessing he's not a Buddhist," said Ashe after he'd gone.
"What makes you think that?" asked Walsingham.
"Buddhists don't drink," Ashe replied.
"Oh… Kusang does little else. I'd fall off a mountain as soon as look at it with the amount he consumes but he always seems steady as a rock."
"Some people can take more than others," Ashe commented, shivering against the cold wind that had started to build.
The courtyard was dark but for the flaming torches, all remnants of daylight having vanished in the time that they had been in the stables. Whereas the weather had been gentle during their climb down the mountain it was taking a turn for the worse now. Thick flakes of snow were beginning to fall, spinning in the meagre orange light as they tumbled towards the cobbled ground. Ashe hoped that it wouldn't keep him from his train.
"The weat
her's getting bad," he said to Walsingham.
"It often does at night," the botanist agreed. "We'll be safely under cover though, no need to worry."
No need to worry? Ashe thought there were several reasons but saw nothing constructive in outlining them.
Kusang reappeared at the main door to the monastery, gave a little bow and beckoned them over. "His holiness will see you now," he announced pompously.
"Time for you to meet the abbot," said Walsingham.
"Should I be worried?"
Walsingham smiled. "He's charm itself. At least I'm assuming so, it's difficult to tell as Kusang always translates. He certainly smiles a lot."
They entered the monastery, the warmth of the fires enveloping them as surely as the clouds of incense. There was the smell of cooking, something beaten up by heavy spices and set to boil. Even though the chanting had ceased there was a heaviness to the air that made Ashe feel self-conscious as he followed Kusang and Walsingham along the corridor. There was an atmosphere to places of worship, he had always found, a weighty expectancy as if the very air was waiting to ignite. He wasn't a religious man but walking through places like this made him feel like he might be missing out on something.
They entered the main meeting hall, where recent prayers still dripped from the stone walls. The abbot was sat in his throne at the end of the room, old bones folded within purple robes that looked heavy enough to crush them. He bowed his wrinkled forehead toward them, his smile so wide it looked likely to split his face. Kusang bowed, with Walsingham and Ashe following suit. The old abbot called a greeting, his voice so thin and high pitched Ashe was hard-pressed to define a single consonant. Kusang clearly had a better trained ear as he replied, gesturing over his shoulder to the two westerners. The abbot crowed once more prompting Kusang to turn to Ashe. "His holiness bids you welcome to Dhuru," he explained.
"Tell him I am grateful of his hospitality," Ashe replied. The interpreter nodded and gabbled a few words to the abbot who bowed toward Ashe.
"Have you told the abbot what has happened?" Walsingham asked.
Kusang nodded. "Naturally."
Walsingham was frustrated at the manner in which he was forced to communicate with the abbot. Kusang controlled the flow of conversation completely and was only too happy to illustrate the fact.
"Well then," Walsingham continued, trying not to let his irritation show to the abbot, "would you like to ask him his thoughts on the matter?"
Kusang smiled, turned to the abbot and rattled off a few Tibetan phrases. The old man nodded a couple of times and then seemed to sink inside his gown, retreating into his silk shelter to think. After a few moments he began to speak, Kusang talking over him once the abbot had a head start, translating to Ashe and Walsingham.
"Dhuru is a place of peace and contemplation," he said. Kusang's voice was toneless, the words meant nothing to him, he was just their vehicle. "It is not intended for those outside our faith, and yet it is due to our faith that we took you in. We believe in treating others with respect and consideration. Even now, I am between two ideals, to offer you protection or to banish you for the safety of my brothers."
"It seems you are not willing to consider the possibility that the culprit was one of your monks." Walsingham interrupted.
Kusang stared at him, blatant disgust in his eyes. He was not a man who felt the need to hide his feelings. He knew how much Walsingham needed him. After holding Walsingham's eye contact for a moment, he turned over his shoulder and talked to the abbot. The abbot inclined his head as if to let the words in more easily, giving a slight nod once he understood. There was silence for a moment and then he replied.
"No, the abbot isn't willing to consider that possibility," Kusang said. "If there is violence within the corridors of Dhuru then you have brought it with you."
"As long as he's being completely reasonable…" Walsingham sighed. "This is clearly a waste of time. We're to be labelled the aggressors regardless of evidence."
"The abbot understands why you may wish to look to strangers to explain things – the bird always looks outside its own nest for danger – but sooner or later he fears you may have to accept the threat that comes from within."
Dear God, thought Ashe, the man was turning into a cliché… this was a waste of everyone's time. "I think you're right," he said to Walsingham, "this meeting's pointless."
"With your holiness' permission," Walsingham said, "it is clear that we have little to discuss until more evidence can be unearthed."
Kusang passed this on and the abbot nodded, waving a small hand graciously towards the main doors.
"Our audience is clearly at an end," said Ashe, bowing towards the abbot and marching out of the room, Walsingham directly behind him. They walked quickly, only too happy to leave Kusang behind, having had more than enough of the man's company.
6.
In the courtyard the wind was howling now, utterly unrestrained and out to do some damage. Ashe glanced at his watch before realising that such a modern timepiece was likely to raise eyebrows if seen by the others. He tugged his cuff back over it. Five and a half hours left before his return train. Not long. But then he hadn't these complications. There was a lesson to be learned here: he should never assume that these visits would be simple, there was no accounting for the problems of others.
Back in the stables the smell of food was wrestling with the scent of the horses. A large iron pot was bubbling in the corner of the room. Helen listlessly stirred at its contents while the major polished his rifle.
"He cleans the damn thing more often than himself," Walsingham muttered as he and Ashe entered. "The man's obsessed."
"Let's hope we don't end up being glad of the fact before the night's out," Ashe replied.
"Let me guess," said Helen, looking up from her cooking, "the abbot wishes no part of it?"
"You are, as ever, correct my dear," Walsingham sighed. "He refuses to consider for one moment that the attacker is one of his brethren."
Helen shrugged, she had expected nothing else. "He was never going to take any responsibility, we are here under sufferance. I dare say they will be quick to evict us now."
Walsingham nodded. "He did hint as much."
"One can hardly blame them," said the major, leaning his gleaming rifle against the wall behind him. "We've forced our way into their country after all."
"Don't fret over your sensibilities, Major," Helen replied, "and do try to remember whose side you're on."
The major bristled. "You will never need to remind me of that madam."
"Pleased to hear it."
A ruckus from one of the adjoining rooms stopped their conversation descending further. A shamboliclooking man appeared in the doorway, his face as grey and pallid as a victim of drowning.
"Ah, Haywood," said Walsingham, "how good of you to join us."
"Most intolerable," the man whispered. "Never known sickness like it… forgive me."
"I am inclined to do no such thing!" Walsingham shouted, relieved to have a source for his anger that was undeniable. "Your constant lack of coherence – or, for that matter, consciousness – is becoming a major liability to this party."
Haywood held up his hands in a gesture of surrender, wincing at the volume of Walsingham's words. "I don't disagree," he replied. "Perhaps it would be better for me to leave."
"We're in Tibet, man!" Walsingham replied. "You don't get to just 'leave' it's a three day trek to the next British encampment… given that you seem incapable of so much as staying upright for a few hours you'll forgive me if I assume the effort to be beyond you!"
Haywood said nothing to that. He opened his mouth, tried to think of something constructive and then, with no thoughts forthcoming, closed it again. He sat down near the cooking stove – wanting some of its warmth for himself Ashe assumed, certainly he looked like he had need of it. Then he thought of something to say though the reluctance with which he said it weighed on Ashe; there was something in his tone that didn'
t gel with the impression he had been given of the man.
"Perhaps it would be for the best were Rhodes to take over as physician," he said. "He has some of the training and none of the shortcomings."
It wasn't the fact that Haywood was denying knowledge of Rhodes' death that stuck with Ashe – if Haywood had anything to do with that then it was a simple enough ruse to deflect blame – rather the reluctance he showed to offload his responsibility. That seemed wrong, Ashe couldn't say for sure why, but it did.
"He has one distinct shortcoming," Helen replied. "He's dead."
