Barbara Cleverly (3 page)

‘Well you do acquire a modicum of detachment, but, come to think of it, I’ve never investigated the death of anyone I knew. Certainly not the death of anyone I was fond of. Perhaps the old detachment would wear a bit thin if ever I did.’

‘But I knew Peggy Somersham very well. We hadn’t known each other long but I suppose you could say she was my best friend.’ She paused and ruminated a bit and then said, ‘In this funny world of India friendships brew up very quickly. Peggy and I had the same background, we knew the same jokes, we’d both suffered an English education — well you get very fond of each other when you have so much in common. And, besides, she was a bright and amusing girl.’

She looked bleakly at him for a moment. ‘I was shattered. I was nursing in France for three years in circumstances where one corpse more or less is hardly stop-press news. But I know what you mean — when it’s someone you know

‘When it came to us that all was not perhaps what it seemed, I discovered quite by chance what had happened before the war. I think it was Ronny Bennett who said, “Poor old Bengal Greys! They don’t have much luck with the memsahibs!” I asked him what he meant and he said, “But wasn’t there a bit of a scandal before the war? Weren’t there one or two sudden deaths?”

‘And then I started enquiring and I found that Alicia, the wife of Captain Simms-Warburton, was drowned crossing the river on the ferry. They all used the ferry then and they all use it now. Since the accident, though, the bullock-hide contraption has been replaced with a less terrifying and much more solid boat.’

‘Bullock-hide?’

‘Mmm. Ingenious arrangement and obviously effective because I’ve never heard of another accident using one, but, as I say, totally terrifying! Four bullock hides are inflated (legs still attached and sticking up into the air, can you imagine!) and a little platform bridges the central two. That’s where the passenger sits. And then you have two native ferrymen lying stretched out like outriggers one on either side and they propel the thing along with their feet. On this occasion though there was only one.’

‘And it capsized?’

‘Yes. Two of the hides burst at the same moment and the whole thing tipped over shooting Alicia into the river.’

‘Any odd circumstances?’ Joe asked. ‘Were there any other passengers? Spectators? Was the raft inspected?’

‘Plenty of spectators. The whole thing was witnessed from both sides of the river. No other passengers — they can only carry two persons at the most and she was crossing by herself that day. But the ferryman gave a clear account of what happened.’

‘The ferryman?’

‘Yes. He was interviewed afterwards, of course. I’ve got copies of the coroner’s notes at the station. You can examine them. He was a brave man. The coroner commended him for his courage. He could have just swum to shore but he saw Alicia struggling in the water — sinking under the weight of her long skirts I should think, and there’s some doubt as to whether she could even swim — and he dived under and tried to rescue her. He nearly made it. They were seen struggling together but by the time one or two bystanders had jumped in and swum out to help it was too late.

‘But it was a long time ago — 1913. Quite difficult to beat up any fresh evidence now.’ She broke off and shouted, ‘Koi-hai!’ to the bearer in his little cabin and issued an order, resuming her story with the words, ‘I thought we could do with a cup of coffee — unless you’d like something stronger? I’ve got some whisky somewhere.’

‘No. No whisky for me. Anglo-Indians start rather too early in the day for me. Don’t forget I spent some time fending off Uncle George’s hospitality this morning!’

‘Well, to continue my trip down Memory Lane, we turn back now to 1912 and Sheila Forbes. There’s a favourite ride in Panikhat. Everybody does it all the time. You go across the river at the ford and then you go up a very narrow little track up the side of the mountain.’

‘Mountain?’ asked Joe with a glance through the window at the endless stretch of lowlying paddy fields they were passing through.

‘Don’t worry, the hills will be coming up soon on the starboard bow. Of course it’s not a real mountain, more an outcrop of reddish, rocky high land. It’s not a dangerous track but you have to be careful what you’re doing. It seems that Sheila’s horse shied at something and threw her off. She was riding side-saddle and when you’re riding side-saddle you can only depend on balance so, at best, it’s a bit precarious. They all rode like that in those days and even now you’ll find an old jungle salt who will look sideways at the Collector’s wife for riding astride. Men! But that’s not fair — the women are just as bad!’

Joe asked again, ‘So much for the basic story. Were there witnesses?’

‘No. Not really. The party she was with were ahead and had gone on round the corner. There was a beggar on the path and he saw it happen. His evidence was just what you’d expect — Sheila’s horse had shied and poor old Sheila went over the cliff — it’s quite a height — and didn’t stand a chance. The horse survived, incidentally. Bold as brass. But

the only unusual thing was that she was not a regimental wife — her husband was in the IAMC. Still, in everyone’s mind it counted as another death on the station.’

The bearer came into the carriage with a copper tray on which stood a coffee pot and tiny china cups. He set it down beside Nancy and she resumed her story.

‘Now we go back to Joan Carmichael, wife of Colonel Carmichael. A bitter man. Didn’t do quite as well out of the war as he thought he ought to have and got stuck at Lieutenant-Colonel. I knew him very slightly from my distant childhood; he was the worst the Indian army had to offer — all moustache and bluster, not kind to the young officers, not popular with the men. I don’t think he and Joan had much of a life together.’

Joe sipped his coffee, his mind more distracted than he would have liked by the story-teller. So she was presumably born and brought up in India; he would have guessed that from her easy manner and knowledge of the language.

‘Tell me what happened to Joan.’

‘Ah, this really makes my blood run cold! She was killed by a cobra. Not unknown in India though actually less common than people back home seem to think. They’ve all read The Jungle Book! They all expect a cobra to pop up out of the plug hole every time someone takes a bath!’

‘I always travel with a mongoose,’ he said seriously.

She laughed and carried on with her tale. ‘Well, it’s a pity Joan didn’t have hers with her that day. She always rode out every morning — most of us do — and she always went the same way.’

‘Does anyone know exactly what happened?’

‘Well, the police work seems, for once, to have been quite good. Again, I’ve read the reports. There were evidences that she — er

’ She seemed suddenly embarrassed and finished with a rush, ‘that she had dismounted to answer a call of nature. Can you imagine anything more appalling? Being bitten by a cobra with your knickers down? I’m not trying to make a joke of it but there’s something awful about people

it’s just the kind of thing that makes us laugh until we think about how terrible it must have been.’

‘It’s a very human reaction,’ said Joe easily. ‘You must have encountered it a lot when you were nursing. We certainly did in the trenches. Laughing was sometimes the only thing that kept us sane. In the beginning. It made the unspeakable something we could handle.’

They were both silent for a moment, thoughts on the death and final painful indignity of the Colonel’s wife.

‘But how did they know it was a cobra?’ Joe asked. ‘I have never been to India before and perhaps there are things obvious to an old Koi-hai that would be a mystery to me

’

She leaned forward, suddenly intense.

‘They knew it was a cobra because it was still there! At the scene. This sounds really extraordinary and there may be a simple explanation but — it makes me shiver to talk about it — but, someone had killed the cobra — chopped its head off — and left it lying there right beside Joan’s body.’

‘But that means

?’

‘Yes, that someone passing by had seen Joan lying dead. Someone passing very soon after the attack. Or even witnessing the attack? Soon enough after to have caught the cobra and have killed it. But why? In revenge for Joan? It’s macabre! Now, Mr Policeman, what do you make of that?’

‘Did the police at the time form a theory?’

‘As far as they were able to discover there were no witnesses to this death, not even a passing beggar. They thought, as I suggested, that perhaps a woodsman — a charcoal burner perhaps — may have tried to save her from the snake, killed it and then realising it was a hopeless case just cleared off and kept his head down.’

Joe sat in silence for a moment, suddenly grieving for Joan Carmichael. Lonely Anglo-Indian wife, unsatisfactory marriage, unkind husband, seeking what relief from boredom she could find by riding out in the early mornings, suffering the while from a bladder complaint, it really was a bleak and pathetic story.

Following his sorrowful thoughts, he turned to Nancy. ‘Had she friends?’

‘I don’t really know. It didn’t occur to me to find out. Acquaintances, obviously. You couldn’t live in a place like this without acquaintances, but close friends, no, I wouldn’t know. Is it important?’

‘No, I don’t think so. It’s just that I was getting such a sad picture. I’d like to have thought she had some nice chum she could call in on, on her way back from her ride.’

She arched her eyebrows. ‘A sentimental policeman? But I know what you mean

We can ask about. There are quite a few officers and their wives on the station who were there before the war. They haven’t been there all the time, of course. They move around. Everyone in India moves around! They may have been posted to several other stations in the meantime but they will remember. If they were here, they will remember. You can count on that.’

‘And you say the first death occurred in 1910?’

‘Dolly Prentice. Twelve years on — and that’s a lifetime in India — but people still remember Dolly! Half the regiment were in love with her from what I hear. Even the memsahibs liked her and that’s unusual because she was young and quite lovely. There are photographs. They salvaged almost nothing after the fire but a tin trunk with the family valuables in it wasn’t too badly damaged and it contained, among other things, two photograph albums. She was a real English rose, Dolly — all fair hair and huge blue eyes. The sort of fluffy, feminine creature that turns men’s heads

all the charm of a twelve-week-old kitten

’

Joe smiled. He looked at the rather sharp profile being offered to him, the tilt of the chin, the straight, determined nose and the knowing, mischievous smile, and thought that Nancy Drummond would not have had a great deal in common with Dolly Prentice.

‘She was married to

?’

‘Major Prentice as he was then. Giles Prentice. He’s now Colonel Prentice and commands the Bengal Greys on the station. You will meet him, of course.’

‘Was their marriage a happy one?’

‘I can’t tell you for certain. I’ve heard stories. Some say he worshipped Dolly and certainly there is evidence that he was completely undone emotionally by her death. Some say he was indifferent to her. He’s a rather

well, you will decide for yourself

but I think he’s a bit odd. A difficult man to understand or like. But whatever his faults he clearly wasn’t responsible in any way for Dolly’s death.’

‘Can you be certain?’

‘Oh, yes. Beyond any doubt. He was in Calcutta dining at the Bengal Club with the selection board at the time of the fire. He was apparently truly devastated when he got back and they told him about it. The officers had left the bodies in the place where they found them in the wreckage of the bungalow and

’

‘Bodies? Did you say bodies?’

‘Oh, yes. There were two. In the bedroom. There was Dolly’s body still lying on the bed and there was another

’

Her voice faltered and she looked uncomfortable as she frowned, considering how to go on.

‘Another?’ he prompted.

‘Yes, another. Holding Dolly in his arms. It was Chedi Khan. Prentice’s Pathan bearer.’

Ť ^ ť

Anglo-India goes to bed early. Anglo-India wakes up early too. Joe Sandilands was awoken at six o’clock by the insistent clamour of a bugle. The Reveille. And as his mind fitted the words which British soldiers had taken to singing to this jaunty call:

‘Wake up Charlie,

Wake up and wash yourself.

Wake up Charlie,

Get up and pee!’

Joe, half awake, thought himself back in France. Back in the army. Back in the war. It was a moment before he realised that the bugle was sounding in the hot awakening of an Indian summer day and not echoing flatly across the muddy fields of Flanders. He fought his way out of his mosquito net and stepped down to feel the welcome coolness of the tiled floor.

He had had a troubled night. His brain had coursed with a mass of undigested and uncorrelated information. His attempt the night before to write up his notes had not been entirely successful. His damp wrists had blotted the page. Ink had run on the soft foolscap paper with which Nancy had supplied him. Paper stamped ‘The Office Of The Collector Of Panikhat’.

He pulled up the blind and opened up the window and leant out. Feeling the promise of another hot day and, mindful of the formidable list Nancy had given him of people he ought to see, he was aware that these might be the only hours during the day that he could have to himself. He decided to set off on a voyage of exploration before it got too hot. He armed himself with a small notebook stamped ‘The Metropolitan Police. New Scotland Yard W1. Telephone, Whitehall 1212.’

The heat struck him as he stepped from his verandah on to a corner of the parade ground and reminded him that he should be wearing a hat. To his right a tree-lined road opened before him and, glad of the shade, he set off down this. It was evidently called Victoria Road (what else?) and a quick reference to his notebook reminded him that William and Peggy Somersham had lived at number 9 (a house which John and Alicia Simms-Warburton had occupied before the war) and, further, that Sheila and Philip Forbes, the doctor, had lived at number 30.