The Damascened Blade (Joe Sandilands Murder Mystery)

by Barbara Cleverly

  Riding a few paces behind and knee to knee with Yussuf, Joe eyed Grace who was chatting easily with Aslam. A clever woman. A brave woman. What had he expected from his outrageous challenge? A confession? Probably not. The best he had hoped for was a sharing of the knowledge he was certain she had of the circumstances of Zeman’s death. Her answer had been evasive if not deliberately misleading. He had been half minded to share with her his evidence of faulty diagnosis to further unsettle her. He weighed the satisfaction of demonstrating to this confident woman that he was not the plodding policeman she had obviously marked him down as against the disadvantage of disturbing her when she was about to try to carry off the most enormous bluff. The next hour would test her resolve and her cunning to their extreme and Joe decided he could not pile on any greater pressure. Later. If there was to be any ‘later’.

  The covert scrutiny abruptly turned to overt challenge. Two tribesmen appeared, blocking their track, and Joe was aware of riflemen on either side of the defile. Aslam shouted a response and two men emerged from behind rocks to return the greeting but Joe noticed they did not relax their vigilance. Grace added a pithy comment in Pushtu, apparently recognizing one of the Afridi as she called out his name. For once Joe could follow what was being said. It had been well rehearsed at the fort and the Pathan love of gesture, drama and joking repartee made all very clear.

  Aslam began by exchanging brief but friendly greetings. He paused, waiting, relaxed and confident, to be waved on. He did not state their business but affected to assume the challenging guards were aware of it. Back came the questions as expected and with a touch of impatience Aslam told them to stop prevaricating and let them through. Time was short. There was a perceptible stiffening in the guards’ attitude and they again questioned Aslam. Eyes rolling with exasperation, he said, enunciating clearly, that the lady doctor had been summoned to attend the Malik and how come they didn’t know that?

  The guards consulted amongst themselves and all declared that no message had gone out. A runner had come through yesterday morning with a message from the ferenghi fort but that was all. Were they sure they’d been summoned? Aslam, half in anger, half in joke, shouted at them. ‘You silly sods! You’ve been sitting up in those rocks so long you’re growing moss on your arses! The message came through to the fort at Gor Khatri. The Memsahib’s staying at the fort for a day or two before going on to attend the Amir Amanullah. She could do without this detour but as a favour to the Malik and because it sounded so urgent she agreed to come. The message came in the night. You buggers were all asleep – come on, admit it! Well, no skin off our nose – we can just turn round and go back. Just explain to old Ramazad why his medical assistance didn’t get through, will you?’

  With a show of bad temper, Aslam began to turn his horse around. This was an uneasy moment. Joe could hardly breathe. If they failed now they would all be shot dead in seconds. At his side, Yussuf yawned negligently, spat in the sand and leaned over to pass a comment to Joe in Pushtu. Joe nodded, grimaced and idly began to pick his nose.

  ‘No! Wait a minute!’ The cry went up just as Aslam had predicted. But then something unexpected: one of the Afridi, apparently with a rush of insight, shouted at the others, his pronouncement accompanied by a loud guffaw. The others, understanding dawning, joined in his laughter, one of them counting ostentatiously on his fingers. It was evident to Joe that ribald jokes were being exchanged.

  Yussuf leaned towards him and whispered, ‘Laugh with me, sahib,’ and, digging him in the ribs, they too appeared to be joining in a joke which was a total mystery to Joe. With a new sense of urgency and all smiles, the leading Afridi waved the two gunmen to come down from their cliffs.

  While they were conferring together Grace moved her horse close to Joe and hissed an explanation. ‘What a piece of luck! I’d been thinking it was about time Allah, the All Merciful, took a hand and now they assume I’ve been sent for to attend the Malik’s new wife. (I hadn’t heard the old one was dead!) She’s due to give birth any day now they reckon. They’re actually fixing up an escort for us to get us through to Mahdan Khotal with all speed! God knows what we’ll say when we get there. I’ll have to play it by ear when the time comes!’

  Lily had finally reached the end of what had been the longest day in her memory. Gently and firmly – with kindness even – she was escorted to the room that had been made ready for her and it was clearly explained that she should stay there and keep quiet.

  ‘What’s the good of that?’ Lily thought. ‘There’s no way in this world I’m going to sleep tonight. Everything’s happening all around me and I take no part. I don’t want to be here any more. I want to be back in Gor Khatri with people I understand. There’s a drama unfolding in this horrible place. Drama? A tragedy, more like!’ Her dismal thoughts were punctuated by the sound of lamentation from Halima’s room. Her cries had grown fainter and further apart and yet there was no one to whom Lily could turn to ask what was happening. Silently she made her way back to the main room and settled down on a heap of cushions by the window. She closed her eyes and fell instantly asleep.

  She woke as swift-moving dawn broke once more, lighting the barren hills and sliding across the courtyard below, rolling back the shadows of the night. Lily jerked into full wakefulness as though she had never slept. She looked down on pacing figures in the courtyard and remembered why she was there at the window. She listened intently for noises from the next room and was relieved to hear a faint groan from Halima. At least she was still alive. Nothing then had changed in that long night.

  She rolled over on her elbow and looked down on the rigid figure of the Malik who, it seemed, had not abandoned his silent vigil throughout the night. ‘What now?’ thought Lily. ‘Is there nothing they can do? Surely primitive women in a primitive tribal area know more about childbirth than anyone in the world and yet they seem helpless.’

  The morning wore on. Women went in and out, their expressions increasingly sad and desperate. Down below a holy man joined the Malik and the two prayed together repetitively and with repeated gestures. The words were formal but the Malik’s anguish was manifest and Lily’s heart went out to that vengeful and violent man. Silently she added her own prayers to theirs. The children, she noticed, had all been sent away to play at the far end of the courtyard and Lily remained alone, anxious and frustrated as the hours crawled by. Finally, ‘I’m not going to waste another second,’ she decided. ‘I’m going to see what’s going on! At least I can sit with Halima for a bit. She may be surprised to see me. She may not even remember who I am but I think she might be glad to have me by her. It’s worth a try. I’m not going to spend another second in this room.’

  She jumped to her feet but her attention was instantly diverted to a rattle and tumult from below. To Lily’s surprise, amidst shouts, the gate of the fort was creaking open as four men pushing the heavy timbers before them worked to admit a small cort`ege. Two Afridi tribesmen preceded a strange group of riders. Lily’s heart leapt as she saw that three of them were in Scouts’ uniform. She observed their approach with a spurt of hope. Perhaps they’d come to rescue her, to escort her back to the fort at Gor Khatri. Perhaps they would get her out of this alarming place. Perhaps a deal had been done. At least they represented something familiar. ‘Now I’m not alone,’ she thought.

  The fourth member of the party was, on the other hand, completely incongruous and completely unfamiliar. A female figure. A female figure astride a horse. Surely that was unusual? She was dressed in red, veiled and in native clothes though she didn’t look like any of the native women Lily had seen since her arrival. This woman was short and stout and carried herself with some authority. She flung a leg over her horse’s head, jumped with surprising agility to the ground and began to fluff out her baggy trousers, calling out commands to her accompanying Scouts. Accustomed as she now was to the deferential attitudes of women in the presence of men, it was a surprise to hear and see a woman prepared to speak and speak loudly; a woman, m
oreover, to whom it seemed the Afridi were prepared to listen. Who could this be?

  And at once Lily saw who it was. Grace! Grace Holbrook. Solid, uncompromising, organizing and efficient Grace! Grace who now turned and fixed her gaze on the Malik. The Malik, standing with the Imam by his side, looked from Grace to the Scouts and to the pair of his Afridi warriors who had escorted the small group into the square. He was speechless for just long enough. Grace hurried to greet him heartily and spoke to him in Pushtu. Such was his astonishment or his fatigue he could only reply in a hesitant voice, pausing to exchange dazed looks with the holy man. The exchange was very brief and Lily, with unspeakable relief, saw the Malik with a sweeping gesture invite Grace to accompany him to the harem. Grace took her medical case from the horse and followed him. Lily heard Grace begin to climb the stairs and ran to the door to greet her.

  ‘Oh, hullo, Lily,’ said Grace, ridding herself of her veil. ‘There you are! Talk to you in a minute. I think I’d better find out what’s happening here first. Just for the moment – be a good girl and get out of my way!’

  She turned to address the assembled women crisply, firmly, unsentimentally. They all reacted in their different ways to welcome her. She went into Halima’s room where she remained for about ten minutes before emerging to say briefly to Lily, ‘Pencil and paper!’ before hurrying back inside.

  This was Lily’s chance. She took a sheet of paper and a pencil from the table and at last was admitted to the sick room. The wax-like figure on the bed was hardly recognizable as Halima. Lily just managed to stifle a cry of alarm as she came to the awful conclusion that Halima was dead. But she must be mistaken – two women were gently smoothing her forehead and holding her by the hand. Lily tried to avert her eyes from the slopes of the enormous abdomen over which Grace was now working and wondered what to do next. Grace snatched the paper from her hand and started to scribble a message, talking to Lily in English as she wrote.

  ‘Lily, you’re to get this to the Malik right away! We’ve got a potentially lethal situation here. One more hour and we’d have lost them both. I have to operate.’

  ‘Do you mean . . .’ Lily began, searching for the right word, ‘do you mean a caesarean? Is this a case for a caesarean operation?’ Such procedures were rarely talked of in Lily’s world and always in tones of horror.

  ‘Yes,’ said Grace, ‘it certainly is. But more than that – it’s serious enough for me to need the Malik to tell me whether, if it comes to the point, he wants the child or his wife to survive. In a few more minutes it may be too late to choose.’

  Lily took the paper from her hand and, in what she could only imagine to be an acute breach of protocol, ran down the stairs in a swirl of drapery pulling on her veil as she ran, rounding the corners, racing down the second flight and out into the sunshine to the surprise of the watchman at the door, looking neither to left nor right, to the waiting Malik who turned on her with a searching look of blazing enquiry. Lily remembered at the last minute to look down and fold her hands in a gesture of humility while he read the note. The Malik held it and read. He read it again. He turned and gazed up at the sky. He looked up at the fretted window and sighed. For a moment he put a hand over his eyes and then turned to Lily and spoke almost apologetically.

  ‘Halima,’ he said.

  Lily ran, taking the stairs two at a time and back into the room where Grace was working and the women were waiting. Grace looked at her steadily.

  ‘“Halima”. He said, “Halima.”’

  ‘Hmm,’ said Grace. ‘These blasted people! I’ll never understand them! Now buzz off, Lily! This is where it all starts to get very messy and I can’t be doing with . . .’

  But Lily had already disappeared.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Half an hour after she had fled from the room, Lily, back at her station by the window, was electrified to hear a sharp squawking. She had never heard a newborn baby yelling but the sound, as old as time itself, was unmistakable. She leapt to her feet and ran, afraid to enter, to hover by the door of Halima’s room. Minutes later the senior Afridi woman emerged and for the first time Lily saw her smile. She beckoned her to come and inspect the bundle she held in her arms. In awe Lily approached and stared and stared at the little round head with its thatch of black hair. Proudly, the Afridi twitched back the wrappings and presented the rest of the baby to Lily, inviting her to share in the pleasure and relief that another boy had been born to the tribe. All Lily could think of to do was plant a kiss in the middle of the smooth brown forehead and wonder.

  ‘Halima?’ she asked.

  Smiles, nods and a torrent of Pushtu conveyed a joyful message before she slipped back into the room. But it was another hour before Grace Holbrook appeared, looking white, exhausted and ten years older. Her white blouse was spattered with blood and her arms were stained to the elbows.

  ‘Halima?’ Lily asked again.

  ‘Yes! Come and see her now,’ she said. ‘She’s asleep. Still under anaesthetic and quite worn out of course but I think she’ll be all right. Strong girl and very young. Very resilient. Most would not have come through but she’s as tough as whipcord! And her baby just the same no doubt. But it wasn’t easy.’ She wiped the back of her hand across her forehead and looked round, groping for support, and took Lily’s steadying hand.

  ‘It was the fall that did it,’ she said, suddenly garrulous. ‘The baby must have been turning itself round, taking up its head-first diving position for birth . . .’ Lily realized that Grace was taking the trouble to choose terms she would understand. She’d probably said exactly the same to the assembled Afridi women in Pushtu. ‘. . . when it was interrupted by Halima crashing to the ground. So we got not just a breech presentation which the women had no doubt seen before and could just about have coped with but a lateral, sideways presentation which was quite outside their experience. One shoulderblade was completely blocking the exit. All that pushing getting nowhere I’m afraid. Total impasse. Lucky we got here when we did. Now. I’ll take a few minutes to smarten myself up . . . I’m determined to break the news to Ramazad Khan myself. That can be my reward. Even at my age you can enjoy a bit of a flourish! Besides,’ she added thoughtfully, ‘Ramazad and I have some unfinished business to conclude.’

  Behind Grace’s usual calm detachment, there seemed a resolution and a grim intent which Lily had not heard before and which seemed out of key with the news she had to impart. ‘It’s time,’ she said, more to herself than to Lily. ‘It’s high time to close the circle.’

  Holding the baby to her breast, Grace went to the head of the stairs. Alone, she made her way carefully down and out into the courtyard. The space was deserted, people having been kept well away from the harem, but watchful faces followed her from every doorway. Only the three Scouts remained at the far end cross-legged and silent. They looked up sharply as Grace appeared. Grace caught sight of the Malik seated under the tree. He rose to his feet and went slowly forward to meet her, his eyes on the bundle in her arms. Lily watched as Grace spoke to him quietly. With the gesture the Afridi woman had used, she presented his son to him. More exchanges followed and the Malik raised his eyes to heaven and appeared to be giving thanks for his good fortune. But Grace had not finished. Indicating the seat in the shade of the tree, she led the Malik over to it and sat down. He sat down next to her, his eyes following his child. Lily reckoned that if Grace had chosen at that moment to lead him over the edge of the world he would have followed.

  A long conversation ensued in which Grace played the major part. Incredibly, it looked to Lily as though Grace was telling him a story, a long, complicated and dramatic story. When she finished she put her head on one side and waited for his reply. He thought for a long time and then asked a question. Grace answered and he made an impatient and violent gesture. Grace spoke again calmly and again he listened intently. Finally, he spoke again, at first hesitantly then more firmly. Grace nodded her head. They were both silent for long moments and then began to talk mo
re easily. They talked for a very long time and as the sun began to decline the shadow of the tower crept across the square. None too soon for Lily, the baby began to squeak and fret and Grace drew the conversation to a close.

  She left the Malik and turned to retrace her steps to the harem and as she came on, she looked up at Lily’s window and Lily could have sworn, just for a moment, that Grace winked.

  She handed the child to one of Halima’s attendants and spoke to another who promptly ran off. ‘I’ve asked for your things to be returned to you, Lily,’ said Grace. ‘No time to change; I want to leave at once. Let me look at you . . . yes, you can ride in those trousers. And have you got a veil somewhere? Good. Put it on. The Malik has agreed to lend us an escort to see us and the Scouts off his territory. It’s generally believed that I was brought here by miracle. The Imam and the strength of his prayers is the talk of the village apparently. I’m not telling them otherwise!’

  ‘There is no “otherwise”, said Lily fervently. ‘Me and Ramazad – that’s just about the only thing we’d agree on! You’re a miracle, Grace!’

  ‘Well, our thanks are largely due to Halima’s little boy,’ said Grace. ‘He’s our ticket out of here! But I’m not hanging about. In the excitement of the new arrival it may be forgotten that you shouldn’t be here. You may be safe enough for the moment at least. But all hell is about to break loose! The news of the birth – the birth of an heir – is running like wildfire already. Soon every man with a rifle in his hand and a horse between his knees will ride in and – there! – listen! Can you hear? Drums! This is only a beginning and thank God for it! We can sneak out in the racket. I don’t usually go out by the back door but the circumstances are unusual, I do believe. This’ll go on for days! Just what I wouldn’t prescribe for my patient. Nothing we can do about it though,’ she added as the drums grew louder and, in a fusillade of shots, one party after another galloped into the fort, bending their horses through the crowd, barely visible through the thickening dust.