‘So, where do we go from here? Shall I confide your evidence to James and question him on the stance he’s taken?’
‘You’re the detective, you tell me!’
‘Fine. Then this is what we’ll do. We’d better sort this out ourselves, Lily, and we must be circumspect. I think Iskander has been alerted to some sort of underhand shenanigans and since he’s not challenged James openly, I think he’s gone away to work it out for himself and plan his next action. It looks bad, I’m afraid. If he concludes that there’s been a lapse in the protection offered by the fort, if Zeman’s death should prove to have been intentional, then it will be incumbent on him to seek revenge. I think he will try to avoid this if he can but once he’s certain that an injustice has been done he’ll act. He’ll act swiftly, what’s more. He’s never likely to be offered such an opportunity again after all. He’s a welcome guest, the subject of much sympathy, free to go wherever he likes in the fort . . . the Trojan Horse who could let in thirty Afghan warriors screaming for badal. Oh, I can tell you, Lily, I don’t like to hear what I’m saying!’
‘We can’t do a thing until we find out what really happened. Come on, Joe, you say you’re from Scotland Yard – would you have been happy with the combined investigation and coroner’s court we’ve just been through?’
‘Good Lord, no! I know we haven’t got any of the facilities I would normally be able to call on but all the same there’s quite a bit more we could do.’
‘Where do we start?’ asked Lily eagerly.
‘I would have said with the body but they’ll have taken it off for burial by now. Even if they haven’t, a policeman poking about in the orifices wouldn’t exactly calm any Afghan suspicions.’ He considered for a moment and then asked, ‘Do you think we could find our way into the hospital without being observed?’
‘Sure. If we work around the wall instead of going straight down the main path we could do it. Together or separately?’
‘I’m supposed to be riding herd on you so on the whole I think less suspicious if we’re together.’
‘Fine. If anyone sees us, you’re bored out of your brains helping me look for that silver bracelet I dropped somewhere in the grounds this morning.’
A few minutes later they had slipped into the room where Zeman’s body had been laid out. The table on which it had lain was empty but Joe was looking for something else. He found it in a neat pile set by the door awaiting collection by the orderly. Locking the door, he picked up Zeman’s clothing and put it on the table.
‘And this is a bit odd, don’t you think so, Joe? He was wearing his uniform. When I saw him in the garden he was still wearing his evening dress – you know – the waistcoat, the blue turban, the whole outfit. Now why would he have put his uniform on to go to bed? Doesn’t make a whole lot of sense to me! Don’t these fellers wear pyjamas?’
‘Well,’ said Joe, trying to make sense of it, ‘he might have changed from his evening dress into pyjamas and then back into his uniform if he wanted to make himself respectable to consult the lady doctor in the middle of the night.’
‘Sheesh! That’s more changes than one of Mademoiselle Chanel’s mannequins could perform! But look, Joe – he’s feeling so ill he thinks he may be dying and he takes time to pull on his top boots? Would he have bothered struggling into those?’ Lily shook her head derisively. ‘Such a lot we don’t know about Pathans. Kinda hard to figure!’
‘Well, file it away. It doesn’t make sense now but if we dig a bit further something else may explain it later. Now, let’s have a look at those . . . Right. Now, there may be nothing to see but if I were doing this properly this is where I’d start. I hope you’re not squeamish. This may be rather disconcerting for someone untrained.’
‘I don’t faint easy. Carry on.’
Methodically Joe spread each garment out and inspected every inch. He gave a commentary as he went, becoming less sensitive to Lily’s presence as she remained quiet and helpful. ‘Waistcoat. Dried vomit, ponding around the right side of the neck. Pity we can’t analyse this.’
Lily wrinkled her nose in disgust. ‘Aw, jiminy! That smell!’ she commented. ‘Takes me back to children’s parties!’
‘Children’s parties! Takes me back to closing time on any Saturday night in Seven Dials!’ Joe broke off in sudden puzzlement. ‘Or does it?’
‘Urgh! There’s bits in it!’ said Lily.
‘And you’d expect that if he did indeed die at the time Grace suggests,’ said Joe in deeper puzzlement. ‘You are perfectly sure of your timing, Lily?’
‘Sure! Look, I’ve told you the exact truth with the exact timing and that’s your base. That’s where you start and everything else is hogwash!’
‘Mm . . . Very well. Trousers . . . perfectly clean. And that’s odd.’
‘Odd? Why odd?’
‘Arsenical poisoning is normally accompanied by diarrhoea. I’ve only encountered one case of arsenical poisoning.’ Joe frowned. ‘A wife had polished off her violent husband but it had taken her six months to do it. I’m afraid I just can’t believe that anyone would die from eating a pheasant that’s swallowed the stuff. But then, out here in the wilderness, how would we find out? Have to try other methods. I’m rather surprised Grace went along with the arsenic theory . . . And what was that other theory she had? The andro-what’s-it poison? Does that sound likely? Anyway, let’s have a look at his shirt. Same vomit staining though less copious.’
‘Joe, look at this,’ said Lily.
Gingerly she held up the cuff of the wide-sleeved cotton shirt that hung over the table on her side. The right sleeve. Joe took hold of it and looked. He slipped a magnifying glass from his pocket and looked again, then passed it to Lily.
‘Rose thorns? This is what he was wearing when he went for his swim. Could he have torn it on the bushes?’
‘I don’t think these are the tears of rose thorns,’ he went on. ‘The holes are too big. And look at the shape. There are two of them and they’re sort of . . . rounded at the puncture point and torn downwards. Look, if he held his arm like this,’ Joe held the sleeve at an angle horizontal to the ground, ‘then the tearing, the drag, would be vertical.’
‘The holes are very small,’ said Lily, ‘and very close together. Puncture holes? Oh, my God!’ She shuddered and dropped the cuff she had been holding. ‘A snake! You’re not going to tell me he’s been attacked by a snake? Oh, why didn’t anyone think of that? Cobras are always slithering in through the holes in the bathroom wall. He could have got back to his room, entered the bathroom and . . . I can’t bear to think of it! Poor, poor Zeman! How long does it take you to die of a cobra bite?’
‘Anything from fifteen minutes upwards, depending on the constitution of the victim. But, no, this wasn’t a snake,’ said Joe.
Lily looked again thoughtfully at the shirt, folded it carefully and replaced it on the pile. ‘Were there any scratches on his arm? Did you get a close enough look at the body, Joe?’
‘Yes, I did. There were no wounds of any kind except for the blow to the head he received when he fell against the stairs.’ He explained the findings of the autopsy.
The remainder of the items including the turban were examined and produced nothing further of interest. Joe looked carefully at the dagger that Zeman had carried always in his belt. He held it in his hand for a moment, admiring the restrained jewelled decoration on the sheath, and then delicately slid out the blade. Lily could not hold back a shudder at the sight of the purposeful weapon revealed. Sumptuous and valuable, certainly, but this was no toy, no ornament. The stubby hilt was of carved black jade, encircled with rows of rubies which gleamed like drops of blood, the curved blade appeared black also, of damascened steel and decorated with a filigree pattern of gold in the shape of a tear drop. Joe took out his handkerchief and gently ran it along the midrib of the blade. He examined it carefully. There was no trace of blood, no residue of any kind. The revolver also was innocent of recent use.
‘Right,
’ said Joe. ‘That’s all we can achieve here, I think.’ He grinned. ‘Now let’s go and lean on the villain who attacked Zeman last night, shall we?’
Chapter Eight
They approached the guest wing silently. They were anxious not to alert their suspect lest he should abscond before Joe had the chance to put him to the question.
Joe assumed a copper’s voice. ‘You cover the outer door, Lily, while I see if he’s in there.’
He padded forward. ‘’ullo, ’ullo, ’ullo. Anyone at ’ome? You’d better come quietly. That way no one gets hurt.’
‘We’ve got you surrounded!’ added Lily excitedly.
Minto emerged from his kennel. His hackles were up. His teeth were bared.
‘I think he’s going to resist arrest!’ said Lily.
Joe put his hands on his hips and looked menacingly down. ‘Would you mind telling me, sir, exactly where you were at 1 a.m.? Or would you prefer to come down to the station and answer a few questions there?’
Minto unleashed a throaty growl.
‘How rude!’ said Lily. ‘I can’t believe he said that!’
‘Just keep your teeth bared for a moment, would you, sir?’ said Joe. ‘Well, Lily, what do you think? Is this our man?’
‘Well, we could send for his dental records or you could offer up your arm for testing purposes but I don’t think there’s any need. It’s right there – one inch from canine to canine. Less than one and a half anyway.’
‘Thank you, sir. That’ll be all for the moment. We’re releasing you on police bail. Don’t leave town without notifying me.’
* * *
They stood for a moment looking at the bleak staircase where they pictured Zeman dying his lonely and agonizing death. ‘Poison – the coward’s weapon, they say,’ Joe thought, and doubly despicable for Zeman, forbidden by tribal custom to declare his sickness or seek help before it was too late. He stood for a moment and traced the damp patches on the floor and stairs, cleaned now and smelling faintly of carbolic and marking Zeman’s last desperate steps. And to be attacked, held back by the sleeve, in extremis, by that awful little dog was a note of near farce beyond contemplation.
Bleakly, Lily’s thoughts had been echoing his. ‘Dreadful, pointless death,’ she said and then, after a pause, ‘But there is something wrong here, Joe, isn’t there? The dog – what’s his name?’
‘Minto. Named after the last Viceroy but three, I believe. Lord Minto.’
‘Right. Well, does His Lordship only attack men?’
‘No idea. Why do you ask?’
‘When I came down at midnight I had to pass his kennel. He didn’t come out. Oh, he was in there all right – I heard him growl but that’s all and when I came back in at about one he didn’t even bother to growl. Although, I was so upset I mightn’t have noticed.’
‘Perhaps he’d gone out for a midnight stroll too,’ said Joe. ‘He’s not tied up after all and his kennel’s right by the entrance.’
‘But you heard just now the noise he makes when he’s disturbed. It would have echoed up this stairwell. Now you’ll have noticed – I certainly have because I was creeping about last night – that you can’t hear a thing between rooms. The walls are thick adobe. But you can hear things happening on the stairs and corridor. I was still awake. It took me a while to sleep because I really was feeling hurt and angry. I might have heard the noise if he’d attacked Zeman but I’ll tell you who would certainly have heard it!’
‘Iskander was right next door and his door’s pretty close to Minto’s kennel. Look, Lily, there’s no one about, they’re all still at breakfast and Iskander said he was going to talk with his men. I’ll slip into his room if you keep watch. Oh, and stir up the beast again, would you?’
Joe went into Iskander’s room, closing the door behind him. He took the opportunity of having a quick look around but there was nothing at all of note: the standard issue bed and furniture. There were no personal possessions other than his evening clothes hanging in a cupboard, and the damp floor and made-up bed told Joe that the staff had been busy and thorough in their daily cleaning. Almost at once he heard the din. Muted, thanks to the thickness of the door, but audible nevertheless. And certainly audible to a sharp pair of Pathan ears.
He emerged and ordered Minto back into his kennel. ‘No doubt about that,’ he said. ‘If my war-ravaged ears could make it out I’m sure Iskander’s keen senses could. And remember what the proverb says – “A Pathan never sleeps.” They’re famous for their vigilance – no one has ever taken a Pathan by surprise as far as I know. So, Lily, tell me – why didn’t Iskander pop his head out to see what was going on? He ought to have taken a dog’s growl as a message that something was not right and I would have expected him to investigate.’
‘Unless he was already a part of what was going on,’ said Lily. ‘None of this makes sense, Joe. What are we saying? That Zeman didn’t die at one o’clock, or he didn’t die here, or Grace is deliberately lying, James is part of a cover-up and Iskander probably knows the truth and may even have killed Zeman himself. Is any of this likely?’
‘Iskander would be my number one suspect, I think, if it weren’t for the second victim. Keep an eye on Betty!’ said Joe.
‘Of course. The second victim. Was that unintentional, do you suppose? I mean I can’t imagine that anyone, especially Iskander, would want to harm Betty.’
‘No, you’re right.’ Joe sighed. ‘It would be completely out of character. Pathans treat women with great care and respect, apart from their own adulterous wives, I understand. It would be contrary to their culture and their religion to attempt to murder even a British woman. As far as I know there’s only been one case of an Englishwoman being killed deliberately out here on the frontier. It was two years ago. Colonel Foulkes and his wife were killed by a gang from the Bosti-Khel Valley. But they were outlaws and the local tribesmen were as outraged as the British authorities. And then again, thousands of English women and children were trapped in these passes on the road from Afghanistan seventy years ago. They all perished, shot with jezails or hacked to pieces with talwars. But that was war. How can you ever predict how men will behave in war or in peace?’ he finished hopelessly. ‘I wonder if Betty could just have been having a recurrence of the sickness she’s been suffering for the last month? That was certainly what Grace supposed when she went off in the night to treat her.’
‘And where does that leave us? This is a can of worms, Joe, isn’t it? Can we get the lid back on, do you think?’
‘Would you want to?’
She shook her head dubiously. ‘No. We’ve got to follow this through. And I’ll tell you something else – I don’t think it’s all over yet.’
‘Well, I think there’s one thing we can be relatively certain of and that’s that if he was killed, he was most likely killed by one of seven people, if I exclude you and me, Lily. The people who were sitting around the dinner table and sleeping in this guest block. Look, they’ll start straying back from the mess any moment now – let’s go up on to the wall to discuss this further. It’s about as quiet as you can get in a fort of a thousand men!’
To his surprise, in Lily he was finding a bright intelligence, an ingenious colleague, quick to understand what he was saying, asking the minimum of questions and quite prepared to put forward her own sensible suggestions. But, underlying the mask of efficient colleague, he sensed a paralysing uncertainty. Lily was struggling with an emotion he could not quite identify. She’d cheered up, however, when he’d staged his mock interview with Minto. ‘I must keep it light,’ he thought, ‘to get the best out of Lily Coblenz.’
‘Good back-up in there, Coblenz!’ he said cheerfully as they climbed up and settled to look over the parapet. ‘If ever you want a job with the Met. let me know!’
‘You really are a policeman, aren’t you?’
‘Whatever else did you think I was?’
‘I thought you were Military Intelligence, you know – one of Sir George’s b
right young men.’
Joe was very surprised. He’d been in India six months, working with Sir George, before he’d guessed at Sir George’s ambivalent role in the government of India, a guess never articulated and certainly never confirmed.
‘Are you suggesting that good old Sir George is a . . . what shall I say? . . . a grey eminence? An unseen mastermind?’
‘Are you suggesting that you didn’t know?’
‘I’m not saying that,’ said Joe with irritation. He could not resist asking, ‘But tell me – who put such an idea into your head?’
‘Oh, come off it, Joe! No one puts ideas into my head! I figure things out for myself. Wasn’t difficult! “You want anything done,” my father always says, “you go straight to the top.” Well, in India, if you want anything done – forget the Governors, forget the Army Top Brass, even the guy in the feathered hat.’
‘The Viceroy?’
‘Yes, him. You go straight to the top of the pile and that’s where you find Sir George. He huffs and puffs. He tried to make me see him as a woofly old sheep dog but us Yankee girls – we ain’t so easy to fool! He pretends there’s someone above him he has to consult but there isn’t, you know. He’s not that easy to handle but he’s a straight arrow, I do believe. Good dancer too.’
In a flash Joe understood exactly why George had despatched Lily to the frontier. He could almost hear the words – ‘Ship the damn girl up to the Hills and set Sandilands to look after her!’ Buying himself a week’s peace and quiet in Simla. At Joe’s expense!
It was ten o’clock and the guard was just changing. Joe borrowed a pair of binoculars from a Scout standing down and handed them to Lily. She turned the glasses to the Afghanis encamped below on the football field. ‘They’re having a pow-wow,’ she reported. ‘There’s Iskander in the middle. He’s doing all the talking. They seem to like what he’s saying . . . there’s an awful lot of agreeing going on.’ She was silent for a moment then added, ‘There’s thirty men plus Iskander and they’re all armed. They’ve got . . . thirty-five horses with them . . . good-looking animals . . . and a couple of pack mules. None of them are saddled up so I guess they’re not thinking of going anywhere in a hurry.’
The Damascened Blade (Joe Sandilands Murder Mystery) Page 11
