The Damascened Blade (Joe Sandilands Murder Mystery)

by Barbara Cleverly

  The room looked at her with astonishment. All, that is, except Iskander himself who looked thoughtfully down at the table in front of him.

  ‘It’s obviously no secret,’ she went on, ‘but just so’s everyone’s got it straight – I’ve offered Iskander a position with the Coblenz Corporation. Either in Delhi or in the States, it hasn’t been decided yet. And I should say he’s still considering the offer – it’s still on the table, you might say.’

  ‘Well,’ said Sir George genially, ‘I may be old but I’m not too old to experience surprise occasionally and there aren’t many people around in this part of the world who can surprise me but, Lily, it would seem you are one of them! Perhaps you can surprise me too, Alexander?’ he said.

  ‘We are in a discussion,’ said Iskander. ‘These things do not depend on me. There are many people to be consulted. Perhaps some of them are round this table. It would not be right to say more than that the proposition is under discussion.’

  ‘Politics,’ said Sir George, ‘are like unto running an infants’ school. Did you know that? Put the infants together and they will either play together or kill each other. I’ve seen it time and again. And the question is – and the reason for my being here at all is – which is it to be?’ He turned to James. ‘Anything in that bottle, James?’ he enquired, pointing. ‘It’s been a long day. I wouldn’t refuse a whisky. Others may feel the same . . .’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ said James, hurriedly passing out glasses and jugs of water. ‘There’s whisky and sherry and fruit juice of some kind. Please help yourselves. Oh, and I should say that I’ve arranged for a meal to be laid on for all of us in the officers’ mess as soon as we’re finished here.’

  ‘The reason for my being here,’ said Iskander carefully and quietly, ‘one of the reasons, is to ensure that the proper enquiry is made into the death of my cousin Zeman. It seems to me that there is still a mystery hanging over this event, a mystery which more than one present would like to see resolved.’

  Edwin Burroughs helped himself to a glass of water. ‘So far as I have any function round this table,’ he said peevishly, ‘it is to evaluate the relevance of what seems to be laughingly called the “Forward Policy” in the light of recent events. I make no secret of it – I recommend withdrawal from this cockpit of war. Our presence here is an incitement to military response. By withdrawing to a sustainable frontier we will cut down dramatically on expense – of lives and materials.’ He sat back in his chair and looked round the room.

  ‘It perhaps goes without saying,’ interpolated Fred, ‘that I am here to consider the extension of the Forward Policy. I believe, unlike Burroughs, that the only way to assure peace is to patrol the frontier from the air. But the issue is an extremely complicated one and I’m not prepared to say more than that at this moment. I reserve my position.’

  ‘Good old Fred!’ thought Joe. ‘He’s learning!’

  ‘And now,’ said Sir George, ‘since we’re all showing our shopping lists, I turn to Grace. Grace who has so often “stilled the seething cup of discord with a cool breath of wisdom”. Your move, Grace,’ he said, cocking a lively grey eyebrow.

  ‘My concerns,’ she said almost angrily, ‘do not vary from year to year or month to month, certainly not from day to day. They are, as they have always been, to create a situation where “every man can sit under his fig tree or under his vine and no man shall make him afraid.” Little enough to ask, you’d think. Unfortunately, in this part of the world, anyone sitting under a fig tree for ten seconds together is likely to get shot and his figs stolen. It is my purpose in life always to save lives not squander them and I have no respect or sympathy for those of any race who would endanger others whatever their motives. As far as I have any purpose here I suppose it would be to urge that this corner of the frontier be left in peace.’

  ‘And I – we – share Grace’s aspiration,’ said James, ‘as we always have. Whether we’re any nearer to achieving it remains to be seen.’

  ‘Thank you, James. Thank you too, Betty. I always know where you stand.’ Sir George sat back in his chair, evidently pleased with what he had heard. ‘So, it appears that, although we approach from different angles, we are all aiming for the same thing – peace.’

  The door at the end of the hall banged open to admit Rathmore. He was – and to those present it seemed his habitual state – purple in the face with rage. Lily looked at him critically. ‘He’s a sort of not very successful massproduced copy of Sir George,’ she thought. It was almost as though he had waited to see what Sir George was wearing and had dressed himself likewise. The blazer: large golden insignia on the pocket. The tie: widely striped and accompanied by a matching silk scarf supporting flawlessly creased white trousers. The cuff-links: where Sir George was wearing a battered gold pair, Rathmore wore large amethysts.

  Rathmore exploded indignantly, ‘Sir George? Good Lord! Wasn’t expecting to see you here! I’m hoping we’ve met here to bring certain people to justice! And I’m pleased to see, by your presence, that at last the powers that be are taking this seriously!’

  George got up and walked over to seize Rathmore by the hand and shake it with what Joe considered to be undue warmth and for an undue length of time. ‘Indeed!’ he said. ‘And the purpose of this meeting, my dear Rathmore, is to determine exactly what has passed over the last few days and make any recommendations that seem appropriate to my lords and masters in Simla. But I don’t need to explain the inner workings of government to a fellow statesman and diplomat . . . enough, perhaps, to say that it is my aim to see that “every brother has his due”. Eh? What? We’ve kept you a seat at the foot of the table.’ An unctuous smile and a languid hand ushered Rathmore into the last remaining place, facing Sir George.

  Rathmore was looking surprised and a little deflated but, Joe would have sworn, was beginning to recover something of his accustomed air of smug arrogance. ‘Ah. Yes,’ he said. ‘Pleased to see that someone in this sorry mess is on the square!’

  ‘“On the square?” . . . “Every brother?” . . . George! The old weasel!’ thought Joe. ‘I know where he’s going with this! Perhaps I’ll help him along!’

  In a spirit of mischief Joe rose quietly to his feet, poured out a large whisky and deferentially offered it to Rathmore. ‘You’re one behind us, sir,’ he murmured, patting him lightly on the shoulder. ‘I think you take it neat?’

  Puzzled and wary, Rathmore grunted but seemed happy to take a large swallow followed by another. Joe, hovering solicitously, topped up the glass and, leaving the bottle by Rathmore’s elbow, resumed his seat. Sir George raised his own glass, admiring the delicate amber of the Glenlivet against the soft lamplight. ‘Only the best for the officers of Gor Khatri, what! It’s not champagne but I can’t think of a more suitable tipple with which to charge my glass and toast the hero of the hour! Lord Rathmore! I understand that congratulations are due. Single-handedly, you have pulled off a coup which has eluded the combined efforts of His Majesty’s Government and armed forces for decades. You have brought us peace and a trading agreement with the Afridi.’

  Rathmore gobbled in astonishment.

  ‘I see you’re surprised that I know already? Grace and Iskander were both eager to fill in the details before the meeting started. I make a point of finding out what’s going on from the horse’s mouth, you’ll find. The only way, I think you’ll agree?’

  Grace and Iskander were both fixing George with suspicious eyes but he carried on oblivious, ‘When the authorities in Simla hear about your exploits – your mad dash into enemy territory . . . running the gauntlet of the Afridi forces . . . (by the way, old chap, if you take my advice you’ll say you “took safe conduct” – that’s the phrase – don’t want to appear too hot-headed, no one trusts a hot-head!) and when they hear about your bargaining with the old rascal Ramazad, you’ll find yourself fêted. (He’s been known to get the better of many a wily old negotiator including, I have to admit, yours truly!) You’ll be a hero! You m
ust be prepared to be consulted as to how to deal with the Pathan – prepared to reveal how you managed it – prepared to be an authority. I have to warn you that after a time you may find it begins to weigh a little heavily though – let us learn the sad lesson of notoriety from Lawrence of Arabia!’

  ‘“Rathmore of the Frontier”,’ hissed Lily. ‘Doesn’t quite have the same ring.’

  Joe looked around the table. For the first time ever, Burroughs and Fred Moore-Simpson were united in their expression which was a blend of outrage and unwilling admiration. James and Betty were tight-lipped and staring at the table. Grace, uncharacteristically, was concentrating on sipping her whisky. Iskander was staring mutinously into the opposite wall.

  ‘Watch it, George!’ Joe thought. ‘I see what you’re doing but any moment now you’re going to overdo it and Rathmore will catch the edge of your scorn and all your masonic advantage will be lost. And two promising careers will be lost too, to say nothing of Iskander’s life!’

  He stood up and raised his glass. ‘A toast!’ he announced. ‘To peace on the frontier!’

  Everyone, including Lord Rathmore, including Iskander, raised a glass and echoed his words.

  Lily leaned to Joe and whispered, ‘That was quite a performance! And like a good shepherd George has got all the sheep herded into the right pen! With a little help from his faithful dog, of course! But do you suppose, Joe, he hasn’t noticed that one of ’em’s a black sheep?’

  Chapter Twenty-One

  ‘That there’s a killer still at large, you mean? Nothing escapes his notice. What we’ve just heard is the first barrel of the shotgun. Wait for the second!’

  After the strained silence of the occasion, a general hubbub broke out as relief washed through the company and they began to talk amongst themselves. Fred was anxious to question Rathmore on the strength of the defences and the layout of Mahdan Khotal, Edwin Burroughs to establish the strength of the Malik as a diplomatist and as a leader of armed men. He wished to know if the Malik would conform to the Tammany definition of an honest man, that is, ‘one who would stay bought’. Grace, serious and concerned, engaged Iskander in conversation about the state of health of his sister when last seen and offered her congratulations on the birth of a healthy nephew. Rathmore downed his third whisky and launched himself into his first public account of his adventures behind enemy lines. To the shared amusement of Joe and Lily, it was noticed that already his role was becoming more dashing in retrospect and they had no doubt that by the time he got back to Simla he would be presenting himself as a blend of Curzon and Kitchener with a dash of T.E. Lawrence.

  Genially, Sir George broke in, calling his flock to order. ‘I know James has organized supper for us all in the mess . . . something special, James? Shepherd’s pie? Wonderful! My favourite! Especially with a good burgundy. And a jam roly-poly to follow? Perfection! Perhaps we shouldn’t keep the staff waiting then? Dermot, Edwin, Fred, if you’d like to start off, the rest of us will join you in a minute. I believe there’s just one more i to dot and one more t to cross before I can write up my report. The matter of Iskander’s query. Easily resolved, I think, if we can just hear what Grace has to say but no need to detain everyone . . . Fred, I can see, is ready for his nose-bag.’

  Fred, indeed, was eager for his supper but quick also to understand the dismissal and co-operatively led the way from the durbar room. The rest of the party seated themselves again and looked at each other. James and Betty were sitting close together, Betty’s hand protectively over James’s. Grace and Iskander were giving nothing away. Sir George’s smile faded as the others left the room.

  ‘Here comes the second barrel,’ said Lily.

  They all looked expectantly at Sir George.

  ‘Had a boil on my neck once,’ he said. ‘Nasty great red thing. Used to call it a “Delhi sore”, I believe. Swelled and swelled and the medico said there was only one thing for it – lance it. He did. Messy business, pus and gore all over the place, but he was right. The minute the pressure was relieved and all the nastiness expelled it started to get better. I have a feeling we have the same sort of situation here with this business of the death of Zeman and I’m going to prescribe the same sort of treatment. Short and sharp but I’m afraid none of us is going to escape uncontaminated. And I’m handing the scalpel – not to you, Grace – you’re part of the problem – but to Joe. Carry on, Joe!’

  ‘Iskander’s persistence in questioning the official account of Zeman’s death, it must be admitted, was entirely justified,’ Joe began without hesitation. George had no time for hesitators. ‘Zeman did not die an accidental death due to food or any other kind of poisoning. He was killed that night but not in the circumstances described, not in the place in which his body was found and not by the method all had assumed.’

  ‘Well, that’ll do for the first cut,’ said Sir George. ‘Now squeeze the rest out inch by inch and don’t forget I was not a party to this little charade so you’ll have to fill in the details to my satisfaction. So, continue, Joe!’

  ‘I’ll start with the testimony of two witnesses who, I am certain, have been telling me the apparently inconsistent truth right from the start. Lily. And Minto.’

  The terrier looked up on hearing his name and bared his teeth with a rumbling growl.

  ‘That horrid little dog?’ said Sir George, unbelieving.

  ‘No other! And while he’s showing his teeth, I’d like everyone to note the size of the gap between his canines.’

  Everyone peered at Minto’s mouth. Although pleased by the attention, he turned his growl up a few points.

  ‘It was a hot night and we had all eaten far too much; some of us had, indeed, drunk more than we should have done.’ He moved smoothly into the next part of his story – Lily’s account of her agonized hour in the garden – deciding shamelessly to edit it to spare her blushes. ‘Lily could not sleep, she has told us, and went down to the garden to get a breath of air at – oh, what did you tell me, Lily? – sometime before one o’clock?’

  Lily nodded. Iskander looked up, surprised and anxious.

  ‘When she went into the garden she heard Minto growl as she passed his box which at that time was at the bottom of the stairs. But she saw that the garden was already occupied by others who could not sleep. There were two figures seated on the marble bench. Could you tell us what you saw, Lily?’

  ‘It was Zeman and Iskander. They seemed to be arguing. Or at least Iskander was angry with Zeman – Zeman was just laughing. I guessed it was a private moment and I didn’t want to interrupt – I mean, it was hardly the time for a sociable chat – so I hid behind a tree and went back into the guest wing after they did. Oh, and this time, Minto didn’t growl at me.’

  ‘This tells us two important things,’ Joe went on. ‘That at the time Grace gave us for his death Zeman was alive and well, and this must cast doubt on the whole of Grace’s testimony. It was this false timing that alerted Iskander to the possibility of dirty work at the crossroads and inspired him to pick up a hostage and flee with him until we British had begun to acknowledge the obvious facts.’

  Iskander nodded.

  ‘And secondly, that Minto was no longer in his box when Lily returned to her room. So, where was he? Where more likely than where we see him now? Tucked up with his mistress. Can you confirm this, Betty?’

  Betty cleared her throat and spoke carefully. ‘Yes, Joe, that’s true. At home in Peshawar he sleeps on my bed and I suppose he couldn’t understand why he was suddenly being banished, and in this strange place. James and I locked our door at about eleven, I think.’

  ‘Yes, I heard you while I was on my beat,’ Joe confirmed.

  ‘Well, we talked about our evening for a bit and James fell asleep at about midnight, I should guess. I stayed awake because I wasn’t well. In fact I was sick. At about one o’clock. Not sure if it was so-called “morning” sickness striking again – it can happen any time of day or night, did you know that? – it doesn’t have to be i
n the morning. James was so fast asleep I didn’t want to disturb him so I crept about and used the washing bowl in the gulskhana. I decided to leave it there till morning. It was very late and, well, I didn’t know what else to do. When I was getting back into bed there was a scratching at the door. Minto. He wouldn’t go away and started whining and making a noise. I unlocked the door and let him in. He leapt at me and was so fussy I forgot to lock the door again. He settled down on my bed and I think we both fell asleep.’ She paused, unwilling to go on to the next chapter.

  Joe continued while she put her recollections in order. ‘Iskander has told us that what appeared to Lily to be an argument in the garden was most certainly at least a difference of opinion. Iskander was trying to dissuade Zeman from carrying out his long-held plan of assassinating James.’

  Joe paused to allow everyone to react to this in their own way. For once Sir George seemed to show the greatest surprise. He went on, ‘Badal. This was revenge for the deaths at James’s hand of his two older brothers twelve years ago. The ideal moment had come and Zeman was not going to let it pass. He had made his plans for escaping from the fort with his men, Iskander was unwillingly standing by and Zeman had changed into uniform ready for the long ride back to Afghanistan. At three o’clock he left his room and set off up the stairs to James’s room.’

  Betty began to shake and James put an arm around her. ‘I’ll tell you what happened next,’ he said sharply, ‘because this part concerns me and, quite honestly, I wish for Betty’s sake it could have been left to lie!’ He gave George a sour look and continued in the clear-cut, unemphatic tones of a soldier. ‘I woke at whatever time you say it was with a knife at my throat. Zeman had a hand over my mouth and the point of his dagger pricking my jugular vein. He didn’t want to kill me while I was unconscious – he woke me deliberately because he wanted me to understand why I was about to die. He hissed the names of his brothers and said he’d been there in the hills watching when I killed them all those years ago.’ He paused for a moment and shook his head. ‘He could only have been a child of ten. He was the one who fired a jezail at me. A jezail! Must have been as big as he was! He’d tracked me down and made a point of getting to know me when we met in Peshawar. I thought he liked me. As a matter of perverse fact, I think he did. But whether he liked me or not would be neither here nor there against the compulsion of badal: the dismal danse macabre of vengeance and counter vengeance. I’ve seen it before and I know how implacable, how destructive, it can be,’ said James slowly. ‘But that’s the Pathan way. How we forget! They’ll plot and plan and take years if necessary to get something right.