Where were the turbaned men and veiled women, the exotic, unrecognizable instruments sketching an arabesque of sound unseen behind fretted shutters? She listened with resentment to the careful discourse of a refined string band playing another foxtrot and looked with disfavour at the white ties and white waistcoats, the long white gloves and pearl necklaces. ‘It’ll all be different when you get to Simla,’ people had said. ‘That’s where the action is!’ But where had that long, uncomfortable journey landed her? A change of address but a change of very little else. She had expected domes and minarets, mystery and romance, but Viceregal Lodge – built in the 1880s – was no more than some bygone architect’s careful and ponderous essay in the Elizabethan manner and there was plenty of that to be seen back home.
Edward Dalrymple-Webster surreptitiously extracted his watch from his waistcoat pocket. Ten o’clock. At least two more hours to go. Two more hours making conversation to this sulky girl. Two more hours desperately trying to elicit a response. ‘Get alongside, old boy!’ Nick Carstairs had said. ‘See what you can do! Tell you what – lure her out into the garden – I’ll switch off the lights and switch on the nightingale, what! And the rest is up to you.’
‘Beautiful girl,’ someone else had said. ‘Pots and pots of tin! Greatest heiress in the world bar three, they say.’
Well, rich, certainly. There was no denying that – but beautiful? Fair hair just a shade too far on the brown side to count as blonde, he would have thought. Thick and silky but cut fashionably short. And her eyes: large and lustrous but where one looked for an innocent shade of Anglo-Saxon blue one encountered an indeterminate green which could one moment rival the English Channel on a bad day and the next skewer a chap like a shard of green glass. Clever eyes that could express anything, apparently, with the exception of proper modesty.
He had done his best. He ran a finger round the inside of his collar which was damply collapsing. He had a spare collar, in fact he had two, but he wasn’t quite sure if he could be bothered to change. Desperately he tried again. What other topics were there? Polo? The weather? The heat? The clothes? The quaint natives? The scenery? Polo? He had exhausted, he felt, all available topics.
‘Where next?’ he asked with a bright smile and a show of passionate interest. Dash it – who cared where this blasted girl went next so long as it was nothing to do with him! No reply. He tried again. ‘Where next?’
She turned a cold eye on him. ‘I beg your pardon?’ she said.
How he wished she wouldn’t say ‘I beg your pardon?’ to everything he offered.
‘Where? he said. ‘Where are you going next?’
She looked at him balefully. ‘My plans haven’t changed in the last ten minutes and as I told you ten minutes ago – Peshawar.’
He caught the eye of Nick Carstairs who passed by at that moment. ‘Miss Coblenz,’ he said, ‘is off to Peshawar!’ and to his relief and gratitude, Nick Carstairs sat down beside them.
‘Off to Peshawar, eh?’ he said vacuously. ‘Can’t think why. Terrible place! Only been there once in my life . . . never want to go again. Nasty dangerous place too if you ask me! Why don’t you stay here? Season’s only just started. Lots going on – race meeting at Annandale tomorrow, ragtime gymkhana the next day, jolly good little operetta the chaps have put together at the Gaiety. Stay here, Miss Coblenz, this is where the action is.’
‘Action’ – that word again! She took another sip of champagne and glowered.
Nick was burbling on. ‘There’s a topping treasure hunt on Tuesday and the Mysore Lancers have a Musical Ride on Thursday. Oh, no – you won’t find anything like that in Peshawar! They’d hardly let you out of the house over there and there’s nothing to see if they did. You mark my words!’
Charlie Carter, police superintendent, was eyeing her covertly. It had been his job to provide for her protection during her visit to Simla. An onerous task. But now, thank God, she was off to the frontier and would no longer be his responsibility. His opposite number in Peshawar could take over – and good luck to him! If they’d taken his advice (and they didn’t) they would not have allowed a girl worth so very much money to be exposed to the dangers of frontier life. He had indeed said as much but behind that glamorous façade, behind those little girl good looks there was, he had discovered, a will of iron. ‘I want,’ she had said, ‘to see the real India!’ And, for her evidently, the real India was not in Simla.
She had seen elephants, she had seen bejewelled rajas, any of whom were inconveniently eager to make her acquaintance. She had seen the Indian Army in all its glamour and Viceregal and other balls had been laid out for her entertainment but this wasn’t the India she had looked forward to. Where were the shots in the night? The murderous tribesmen sweeping down from the hills? The embattled garrisons of lonely forts? The lean, sunburnt, ruthless men with their devoted, native followers? She had understood that such things were to be found in abundance at Peshawar so to Peshawar she had determined to go.
Such was her determination that it came to the ear of Sir George Jardine. ‘I’m under orders,’ Sir George had said resignedly to Charlie. ‘This comes down from on high and I mean as high as you can go.’ He raised bushy grey eyebrows to introduce a flavour of intrigue. ‘This damn girl is, I’m sorry to tell you, a sight more than a pretty face. Nothing to do with me, of course, but it’s all very cloak and dagger. It all has to do with the motorization of the Indian Army. It seems the Coblenz Corporation has a mass of brand new military transport parked in depots all over the US and completely unused. It seems that the Royal Navy have half a dozen or more brand new destroyers and, with disarmament a lively topic, no conceivable use for them. There’s a high level swap under negotiation and, believe it or not, the happiness of little Miss Coblenz is considered to be of some importance. Father Coblenz has come to Delhi to carry out negotiations personally and his daughter chose to accompany him. Someone told her it was the fashion to leave for the Hills when things started to get hot in the capital and her father agreed to her coming up here to grace Simla with her presence. She’s nominally under the chaperonage of Lady Holland and it falls to us to make her happy. Fine state of affairs when the future of the British Empire is bound up with the holiday plans of a spoilt little halfwit. But times change. When I was a lad “gunboat diplomacy” meant something rather different! But there must be something in it if the Viceroy and the Prime Minister . . .’
Meaningfully, his voice had died away and he had resumed, ‘Someone is going to have to squire this girl into the North-West Frontier Province and, perhaps rather more importantly, safely back again!’
‘For God’s sake, sir,’ Charlie had said in alarm, ‘wherever else you look – don’t look at me!’
‘No?’
‘No! Emphatically – no,’ said Charlie. ‘Whom have you in mind? Oh? What a shame! He would have been perfect but I suppose he’s half-way home by now?’
Sly and plausible, Sir George took a moment or two before replying. ‘Half-way home? Nothing of the sort – as well you know, Charlie! He’s still got a month’s leave – and, I will add, a month’s richly deserved leave. In fact, it could hardly be more convenient when you consider where he has elected to spend the last few weeks.’
‘Why? Where?’
‘Well, you may not believe this and it’s extraordinary how often these things fall into place but he is, in fact, currently in Peshawar. And why? Because a wartime friend of his, seconded to the Scouts, is commanding the fort at Gor Khatri!’
Not for the first time Charlie Carter felt a spurt of irritation at the way in which Fate played good cards into the hands of the manipulative Sir George. He had once said as much to his wife. Meg had looked at him pityingly and replied that in her opinion, if Sir George were ever to be so unwise as to play cards with Fate, you could be sure that he’d rigged the deck beforehand.
Dismissively Charlie said, ‘Well, he may be perched up there in Peshawar but there’s no reason to suppose he’d take this
job on . . . I mean – poor old sod! – he’s been trying to get home for nearly six months. He won’t let you involve him again! Really, when all is said and done – why should he?’ But even as he spoke he could hear himself saying apologetically, ‘Sorry, Joe! Did my best for you but – you know how it is with Sir G.’
Unaware of the plans that were being made for her future, Lily Coblenz sat amongst the debris of empty glasses, ashtrays and discarded buttonholes as the ball drew to its conclusion. An ADC appeared at her elbow. ‘Sir George,’ he said deferentially, ‘would be delighted if he might have the next dance.’
Instantly Lily sparked up into complete wakefulness. ‘Tell Sir George,’ she said graciously, ‘that I too would be delighted!’
She tried not to hear the sigh of relief with which Edward Dalrymple-Webster greeted this; she tried not to hear Nick Carstairs’ ‘Get me a brandy, Neddy. God knows I’ve earned it!’ and with a courteous smile she allowed the ADC to escort her to Sir George’s table.
Sir George watched the young woman weaving her way around the dance floor towards him. Damned little nuisance she might be but she certainly had style. He compared her confident carriage and elegant get-up with that of the other women present – mostly military and civil service wives. In her slender cream silk dress, its simplicity relieved only by a rope of black pearls (a gift, it was rumoured, from a susceptible nabob), she made the others in their pink satins, mauve tulles and raspberry chiffons look like a box of bonbons, he thought. ‘Well coupled up, short back . . .’ He appraised her for a moment and added, ‘Nice mover!’
‘Ah!’ he said expansively, rising to his feet as she approached. ‘You are the most elusive young woman, do you know that? I’ve been the whole evening trying to attract your attention – trying to hack my way through the throng of admirers. When you get to my age you don’t expect preferential treatment.’
‘Sir George,’ said Lily firmly, ‘you don’t fool me! I’ve been trying to catch your eye the whole evening so it seems that we have at last both achieved our heart’s limited desire!’
George had noticed that the girl’s language veered between the two extremes of Edith Wharton heroine and Zane Grey ranch-hand. Tonight it seemed the Edith Wharton heroine was on parade and he was grateful for that.
The band moved smoothly from a foxtrot into the waltz from The Merry Widow. ‘Just about my pace,’ said Sir George comfortably, slipping a practised and surprisingly muscular arm around her shoulder. ‘I can’t tell you,’ he said cheerfully, ‘how much trouble this dotty idea of yours has landed me in! You can’t imagine how close I have come to saying on more than one occasion, “Quite out of the question,” because that’s what everybody’s been saying. But I’ll cut a long story short – you leave for Peshawar tomorrow. By train. You’ll be up there for a week and then you’ll be back here again. I wouldn’t go so far as to say I’ll be pleased to see you but I will certainly be relieved to see you.’
Delighted, but not surprised to have got her own way, Lily favoured him with a flirty toss of the head and a knowing glance. ‘My! Your sweet talk, Sir George, fairly makes my head spin!’
With dignity they stepped on to the floor together and Sir George resumed, ‘There will be two companies of Scouts whose role is exclusively to look after you! And, further, I have arranged for you to come under the direct care and supervision of a policeman. A London policeman.’
Lily stopped in mid-swirl. ‘Scouts? A London bobby? Sir George, what is this?’ she said with suspicion. ‘Are you going to add a London nanny and a Yeoman of the Guard too? I don’t like the sound of this! Is it meant to put me off? Because I warn you – it won’t!’
Sir George laughed. ‘Don’t get the wrong impression! When I say “Scouts”, I’m not talking about little boys in knee pants doing their best to be prepared! I’m talking about the irregular forces which man the frontiers of Empire in this part of the world. Pathan other ranks, British officers . . . very tough men indeed! Best shots in the British Army, best horsemen too. They can run thirty miles under a hot sun, barrampta a village and be back in time for tiffin.’
‘Carrying a mule on their back?’ said Lily, unimpressed. ‘If they were Texas Rangers they could!’
Sir George cleared his thoat and swept her into a tight reverse turn. ‘At all events you’ll find they’re very businesslike. They won’t stand any nonsense!’
‘What do you mean by that?’ asked Lily apprehensively.
‘I mean what you’re afraid I mean. They won’t let you get away with anything and you’ll have to do what you’re told. Is that understood?’
‘What I’m told? Who’s going to tell me?’
‘The man I just mentioned, the, er, the London bobby as you call him. The man I’m putting in charge of the whole security operation. He’s an officer from Scotland Yard who just happens to be up in those parts.’
‘Scotland Yard?’ For a terrible moment a vision appeared before Lily of a helmeted, confidential, fatherly London Sergeant of Police, possibly with a restraining pair of handcuffs in his back pocket. ‘What’s the good of that? You folks have been lining up to tell me this frontier is wilder than the Wild West. What would I do with a bobby out there? I know about bobbies. He’ll be armed with nothing more than his night stick! . . . This isn’t going to be a stroll down Piccadilly, you know!’ Lily was pleased to return in a starched English accent a phrase she had heard addressed to herself several times over the past few days.
‘This chap is quite a – ah – quite what you’d call “a tough guy”. He’s Commander Joseph Sandilands, DSO, Royal Scots Fusiliers, ex-Military Intelligence.’ Sir George smiled at a happy thought. ‘Joe Sandilands halted the advance of the Prussian Guard for four hours. Single-handed. So – with the aforementioned companies of Scouts, of course – he should be a match for you!’
Chapter Three
Joe Sandilands sat at ease. The day had been spent in the company of a Scouts’ patrol which he had learned to call a ‘gasht’. He couldn’t remember when he’d more enjoyed a day – a day spent happily in all-male company. He’d watched with admiration the meticulous precautions and the well-drilled routine. He’d admired the camaraderie between all ranks and now, at the end of the day, admired and appreciated the comforts of the fort. He was very glad to have a double gin, he was looking forward to a second. Shamefacedly he was glad to take off his boots and wished he was equipped with a pair of chaplis, the stout nailed sandals the Scouts and their officers wore. He rubbed his red-rimmed eyes and thought a pair of sun goggles would have been welcome.
Hungry, he wondered what was for dinner and if he had time for a swim in the large concrete tank which did duty for a swimming pool. His friend James Lindsay, having dismissed the gasht, came up to join him. ‘Better slip along to the office, Joe, before you seize up – it seems there’s a cable for you. Let me just finish here and then we’ll meet for a swim. Dinner at half-past seven or thereabouts.’
And, unsuspecting, Joe went to read his cable. It was long. It ran to several pages. It was perhaps predictably from Sir George Jardine. It was friendly, it was colloquial, it was lengthy, it was unequivocal. It told him that he’d been awarded the job of looking after a demanding, irresponsible, independently minded, fabulously wealthy and totally infuriating American heiress. ‘She’s coming out from Peshawar tomorrow and you’re to welcome Miss Coblenz to the fort and show her something of the North-West Frontier, Joe. Bit of local colour and excitement, you know the sort of thing. She’s looking for an experience I understand is no longer available to adventurers even in the wilder parts of her own largely now civilized country. She tells me she can “shoot like Wyatt Earp and ride like an Apache” – I wonder where she read that? – so I think it will be a sound idea to keep her well away from both guns and horses. As far as that’s possible in a frontier fort, of course.’
Dumb with horror, Joe slumped on the edge of the tank, a towel round his shoulders and this terrible document in his hand, and he
re he was joined by James Lindsay who eyed him with curiosity.
‘What’s the matter, Joe? A further round of dizzying promotion? Knight Commander of the Star of the Indian Empire?’
It had been three years since they had last met but time had changed neither man and they had picked up their easy friendship without the slightest hesitation, a friendship based not only on shared memory and shared background but on something less overt, less explainable, amounting perhaps to an ability to catch each other’s thoughts and moods with ease. It had not been a friendship either had expected or worked towards; it seemed to have announced itself from their first meeting.
They had met on the Western Front. James’s mind went back to that pit of horror under the ridge at Passchendaele and his commanding officer’s words: ‘Royal Scots Fusiliers should be coming into the line on your right. Your first job is to get in touch with them. I can’t give you any more men, you’ll have to do the best you can with what you have. Don’t know anything about these chaps . . . Borderers . . . Lowlanders . . . Sweepings of Glasgow . . . But they’re probably all right. Look, lead this yourself. Leave Bill in command and work your way over to the right until you hit something solid. I can’t say more than that but – good luck! Here – before you go, have a swig of this!’ And he passed across probably the most welcome drink in James’s life. A silver flask in a leather case from – he noticed – Swaine, Adeney & Briggs of London but now filled with Glenfiddich, a touch of reassuring London elegance in the mud and stink.
The Damascened Blade (Joe Sandilands Murder Mystery) Page 2
