Barbara Cleverly (17 page)

’

‘In his hand?’ said Joe, horrified.

‘Oh, yes,’ said Naurung. ‘I could not do it but there are many who can catch a cobra. If you catch it just behind its head it may writhe and wriggle but the catcher is quite safe if he keeps hold of its head and puts it in a sack. I know six, perhaps more, Indians who could do this. He approaches the memsahib. She is shocked, she is horrified, she is terrified. He holds the snake in his hand and he throws it at her. She was bitten here, sahib,’ he said, pointing to his left buttock. ‘From here to the heart is not far for the venom to travel. She would have died very quickly. It is terrible but I think that is what happened. And then, because he is a very bad man, he stands and watches her die and when the poor lady is dead he cuts the snake’s head off and disappears into the jungle. I have seen it in my imagination so many times. Now I stand here I believe it is the truth.’

‘Christ!’ said Joe. ‘I believe you’re right! It sounds terribly true. I didn’t know about cobras.’

‘I did,’ said Nancy, ‘but I never connected it. Naurung, we must catch this man.’

‘He is clever,’ said Naurung. ‘He is very clever. Now that we know he exists, we will find him.’

‘One last thing, Naurung,’ said Joe. ‘Have you ever heard of a white man, a sahib, who would know how to catch and handle a cobra?’

Naurung dropped his eyes to his boots and replied slowly, ‘No, I have never heard of such a man.’

Chastened, they climbed back into the car and made their way back on to the main trunk road through to Calcutta. Progress along the potholed road crowded with people and animals kicking up clouds of dust was slow in spite of Naurung’s enthusiastic use of the horn and Joe discovered that on Indian highways even the Collector’s Packard gives way to cows and elephants. Shaken and stiff in spite of the luxurious springing, it was well into the afternoon when they caught sight of the welcome green expanse of the maidan, the reassuring octagonal bulk of Fort William and the crowded masts and funnels on the river beyond. They drove north up the Chowringhee Road, their eyes dazzled by the glare of the whitened palaces along its route, and Joe was surprised, after his four days’ absence in the country, that he was finding the familiarity of the city reassuring. Naurung stopped the car.

‘Well, here you are,’ said Nancy. “This is where you get off. I think you know your way about? Carmichael’s establishment is somewhere along this street — here, I’ve written out the address for you. Naurung is going to drop me off at the hospital where I’m to meet Forbes and we’ll meet up again for tea. Just take a rickshaw to the Great Eastern when you’ve finished with Carmichael.’

Naurung seemed anxious to go off on his own business and asked if he might be excused when he had finally dropped them off at the Residence, announcing that he was staying the night with a member of his family. Joe waved them off as they set off back towards the hospital and fixed his mind on Harold Carmichael, formerly second-in-command of the Bengal Greys, formerly the husband of Joan.

British India does not walk very often, but distressed by the anguished face in his imagination of Joan Carmichael, Joe resolved to walk the length of Chowringhee to Carmichael’s office. As he made his way past the once opulent villas of bygone nabobs — many of which ranked as palaces rather than villas — he noted that the further he walked from the centre, the more multiplex the subdivision of these great houses became.

Initially, brass plates discreetly announced the presence of banks, insurance companies, the Calcutta office of internationally known trading houses, engineers, architects and solicitors. But soon the brass plates got smaller as the number increased. Brass plates gave way to cards. The number of bell pushes multiplied. Names appeared on upper windows, front doors stood open. Kites circled the damp air and crows pecked crumbling cornices. Numbers grew into the hundreds.

After about twenty minutes’ walk, keeping to the shade of the arcades whenever he could avoid being forced out into the road by the crowds, he found himself outside number 210. Number 210 had no fewer than twenty names at the door, some of these boasting new name plates, most boasting cards and amongst these — after quite a search — he identified Carmichael, Popatlal and Mandavia, Importers of Fine Wines, Beers, Spirits
etc.
There was an electric bell push which, without much hope, he duly pressed. An Indian emerged from the darkness within and spoke to him at length. Joe shrugged his shoulders and smiled, pointed to Carmichael’s card and looked a question which only elicited a further flood of Hindustani but eventually a hand pointing helpfully up the dark staircase.

As he progressed, heads appeared in various doorways and eyed him with curiosity. A Metropolitan policeman in uniform was not often seen at this end of the Chowringhee.

He came at last to an open door through which he saw a white-clad figure seated at a desk and writing without much urgency on a pad in front of him. He was balding, he had a grey moustache which might once have been the standard moustache as issued to, or at any rate worn by, British cavalry officers. His collar, which had once been stiff, lay on the desk beside him and his shirt was open at the neck. A large copper ashtray was full of the butts of many cheroots. There were two empty whisky bottles in the waste paper basket and another about half full at his elbow. An Army and Navy Stores ‘Colonial’ refrigerator in a mahogany case stood against the wall but the door was open and the contents were gone.

The walls were lined with photographs, mostly, Joe noticed, of the Bengal Greys, but these were spotted and damp-stained and thunder flies had made their way in and perished behind the glass. There was not much about the figure before him to recall the dapper cavalry major.

Joe knocked tentatively on the door and then, getting no response, with more authority. He was greeted by an irascible ‘Yes?’ Putting his cap under his arm, he strode into the room.

‘Major Carmichael?’ he said. ‘My name is Sandilands.’

Carmichael looked round. ‘Sandilands! Good Lord! Is it three o’clock already? Oh, I am sorry! It’s been rather a hectic day. One damn thing after another in this business

but now — come you in.’ He rose to his feet and extended a damp and hairy hand. ‘Funny time of day, this,’ he said. ‘Seems too early or too late to offer you a peg but I expect you won’t say no. You’d think in this humidity you wouldn’t necessarily need to keep up the fluids but everybody says you should so, here we are — a khushal ye.’

Joe knew the appropriate response but wondered whether in the light of what he saw it was entirely appropriate. ‘Khwar mashe,’ he said, the literal meaning of which he understood was ‘May you not be poor.’

‘Now,’ said Carmichael, as two fairly full tumblers of whisky appeared on the desk, ‘what can I do for Commander Sandilands? Of the Metropolitan Police, I understand? Rare bird in Calcutta!’

Joe went into a prepared speech, ‘

here at the invitation of the Governor

no particular anxiety to stir up old troubles or open old wounds

the Collector

some anxiety when — as you’ve probably heard — the death of Peggy Somersham last week awoke old rumours

thought it better to scotch these at the outset and reaffirm the finding of the coroner

not a good idea to let speculation grow

’ And so on.

Carmichael eyed him bleakly and in silence for a moment or two. Joe remembered Nancy’s words, ‘A bitter man

the worst kind of Indian army officer

all moustache and bluster

not popular with the men

’

Moustache, yes, bluster no. Joe did not believe he had ever seen such a figure of defeat.

‘If you’re thinking about poor Joanie’s death, I can certainly reassure you. Very clear case. Killed by a snake but I expect you know all that.’

‘Was that usual — being bitten by a snake?’ Joe asked. ‘Remember I’m only an ignorant London bobby.’

‘Don’t know about usual

Not very common but by no means unknown. One or two a year, I suppose. If you’re quick and medical attention is immediately available it doesn’t have to be a fatality but Joanie was all on her ownsome and that’s all there is to say about it.’

Something prompted Joe to say, ‘You must have been very distressed?’

‘Have been?’ said Carmichael. ‘Still am. Most distressing damn thing by a long way that ever happened to me. And, of course

’ He paused for a long time and then resumed, ‘

I suppose this often happens in marriages. Something happens to one partner and all you can think of is the things you never said or did. Are you married? No. Then you probably wouldn’t appreciate this but, every marriage is full of times when you could have been a bit kinder, more considerate. Give you an example — Joanie hated snakes. Terrified of them and at that time we were living in a thatched bungalow — one of the old pre-Mutiny ones. It had a canvas ceiling. One night we were sitting there and we saw a big snake crossing from side to side above the ceiling under the thatch. Looking for mice. I thought Joanie would have a catalepsy! She screamed and sobbed and cried

damned embarrassing! Servants came running from all directions! Nothing would please her but that we should move house. We couldn’t at that time have sold the house without dropping quite a lot of money and I said, “Quite out of the question!” I didn’t have to say that, you know. Not a kind thing to say. And then, of course, this cobra business. It seemed like a terrible fate. A judgement on me perhaps. I was just going to say it took me a long time to recover but I don’t think I’ve ever recovered. Ah, well. You do your best at the time. It may not be very good but nobody can do better than their best, I’m always saying.’

With an unsteady hand he refilled his glass and Joe took him quickly through the other deaths. ‘Sheila Forbes?’

‘Nasty, dangerous place, that. Could happen to anybody.’

‘Alicia Simms-Warburton?’

‘Those bullock-skin rafts — damn dangerous, if you ask me.’

‘Peggy Somersham?’

‘Wouldn’t know. Never met her. Sorry, I don’t think I’m being much help.’

‘If you’re in the police it’s sometimes just as helpful to know where not to look as to know where to look,’ said Joe and it was not the first time he had said it.

‘Yes,’ said Carmichael, ‘yes, I suppose that’s true. Never thought of it like that. Know where not to look — eh?’

‘Yes,’ said Joe. ‘Well, that’s it, I’d say. Thank you very much for your patience. You’ll think I’m an infernal nosy parker, I’m afraid.’

‘No, no,’ said Carmichael. ‘Not at all. Come and see me again next time you’re in Calcutta and choose not such a busy day, if you know what I mean. Excuse my coming down — I’ve got this, er, these, er, to put together before — tomorrow.’

Joe found himself back in the baking street. Very reluctant to walk all the way back up the Chowringhee, he hailed a passing rickshaw and, confident that he had not unmasked a subtle, devious and skilful multiple killer, he made his way back, calling at one or two shops on the way, to the Great Eastern.

Here, amidst the strangeness of Calcutta and following the depression of his interview with Carmichael, he was overjoyed to see Nancy presiding over a small tea table. He strode forward with outstretched hands and seized hers as she rose to greet him. A longing to kiss her was only overcome by the assumption that the room would be full of people she knew and he compromised by kissing her hand and then, after a minute hesitation, her other hand.

‘Ah, my dear Watson,’ he said, ‘I hope you’ve spent your afternoon more profitably than I!’

With the fluent rapidity that he envied, she ordered him some tea and in due course a fresh pot, a plate of sandwiches and a substantial slice of fruit cake appeared.

‘I don’t know whether I’ve achieved much,’ she said, taking out a notebook and setting it on the table, ‘but he’s quite a useful chap, Philip Forbes. After all, he was the MO from 1910 right through until the regiment came back from France. He did a postmortem examination on Dolly Prentice and Prentice’s bearer and the same for Joan Carmichael. Same, indeed, for his own wife. That was a sad case, Sheila. She was really terrified of heights, you know

’

Joe put down his slice of cake and said sharply, ‘Say that again.’

‘She was really terrified of heights, you know

’ Nancy dutifully repeated and went on, ‘So I said, “Well, why did she go up that path if she was terrified of heights? It’s not the best place in the world for anyone with vertigo,” and he said something so pathetic. As a member of the IAMC, he and Sheila were never really part of the regiment. They were tolerated rather than welcomed and when she was invited to ride out with these people to a picnic, Sheila was flattered and delighted. It was the social breakthrough she’d been waiting for. Poor kid, she was only twenty-three! So although she didn’t fancy that track, she just gritted her teeth and went for it. Oh, snobbery! What crimes are committed in thy name, I sometimes wonder. He has no idea, you know, Forbes I mean, that Sheila may have been murdered. None at all. Just accepts it as a particularly grotesque joke on the part of Fate.’

She was silent for a moment then said hesitantly, ‘Joe, do you think there’s any chance we may have got this wrong? That it was no more than an appalling accident? Given that Sheila was a nervous horsewoman at the best of times, very anxious to do the right thing. Nervous and a bit scared. It communicates itself to the horse, you know.’

‘I’m sure her death was arranged,’ said Joe firmly. ‘And that it was planned for some time before. Someone who had access to the stables and who knew her horse, knew even that she was about to ride out with her new friends, deliberately caused it. I think this someone put a stone under the frog in her horse’s hoof at some time before they set out. You remember that she began to fall back almost at once and waved to the others to carry on without her and that she would catch them up. That delay was just enough to ensure that she was out of sight of the rest of the party at the time she was passing the precipice. I think that someone hiding in the rocks, perhaps the saddhu, leapt out and pushed her over. And her worst fears became a reality and her last thoughts were sheer panic.’