Barbara Cleverly (5 page)

Joe riffled through the bundle of yellowing papers on the table between them.

‘A connection. Yes, Naurung. A connection is what we have to find. If there is a thread, any thread at all connecting these five deaths, then I think we will have an idea of why the memsahibs died. We know how they died — though we are far from knowing how the deaths might have been brought about — but we do not know why. I was taught that if you know “how” and “why” you will soon know “who”.’

‘Yes,’ said Naurung, ‘my father also has said that.’

Joe reflected for a moment and said, ‘We must study the reports and find what these ladies had in common. How closely have you been involved with these cases?’

‘With the death last week of Mrs Somersham I was involved. I was here at the station and helped the Police Chief Bulstrode Sahib with the investigation. I was not allowed to witness the scene of the death

Later

’ Naurung hesitated.

‘I understand. Go on.’

Joe read his unspoken thoughts and cut short the explanation which Naurung would have found embarrassing to give. The sight of a naked Englishwoman in a bath full of blood would have been kept from native eyes.

‘You’ve seen the photographs? And come to your own conclusion?’ he pursued.

‘It was I who had them developed for Mrs Drummond. There is a sergeant in the Signals who can do this. Yes, I saw the photographs, sahib,’ Naurung muttered and looked uneasily away.

‘I would have shown them to you anyway,’ said Joe. ‘Here, look again. Tell me what strikes you as odd.’

Naurung approached the table and glanced diffidently at the black and white photographs. Joe stared, seeing more than his first cursory and polite glance in the Governor’s office had revealed.

‘I see much to make me unhappy, sahib. But perhaps you would like to tell me what an experienced London policeman sees?’

Pushing back his feelings of revulsion and his pity for the girl who lolled naked in her bath, full white breasts buoyed up and outlined by the blood-blackened water in which she lay, Joe tried to keep his mind on the even more disturbing elements in the hideous scene.

‘Firstly, Naurung, a few details to put me in the picture before we go to look at the bungalow. Tell me who discovered the body, at what time and so on.’

‘Somersham Sahib found her body. Poor man — he was at first crazy. His screaming brought his servants running. At seven in the evening. They were preparing to go out to dinner with friends and then to a dramatic performance. She had gone to have her bath at six. The bheesties who carried in the water and her ayah who poured the water confirm this. Somersham Sahib had been working in his study waiting until she had finished and he suddenly thought it was taking an unusually long time and went to the bathroom where he found her dead.’

‘What efforts did he make to seek help?’

‘Oh sir, he sent servants running everywhere. To the Collector, to Bulstrode Sahib, to Dr Halloran of course. But it was Memsahib Drummond who was the first to arrive.’

‘Did anyone apart from the ayah confirm when Mrs Somersham went to her bath?’

‘Memsahib Drummond took the temperature of the water — you will see this in your notes — and agrees that it would have been poured an hour before the body was discovered. The doctor, who arrived just before eight, confirms that she had been dead for less than two hours.’

‘And the knife wounds? What do you make of the knife wounds?’

‘Ah, sahib, I have discussed this with my uncle

’

‘Your uncle?’

‘He is a butcher, sahib, and his opinion is worth hearing.’

‘Yes, I expect it would be. Go on.’

‘As Memsahib Drummond says, and she has nursing experience I understand, these wounds could not have been both made by Mrs Somersham.’

He pointed to the cut wrists on the photograph and made explicit slashing movements with each hand in turn. ‘This is how it happened, you see. She could not have made these wounds herself. And if she did not, there is only one other explanation.’

‘And the weapon? I presume it was found at the scene?’

‘It was a razor. It was found at the bottom of the bath. Nothing unusual about the razor — the usual three and a half inch hollow ground blade that all the sahibs use. Bone handle.’

‘Was it identified?’

‘Oh yes. It belonged to Somersham Sahib. It was part of his shaving set. He keeps his razors in the bathroom in a mahogany box on his shaving stand.’

‘Could Somersham himself have done this?’

‘Of course. Apart from the servants he was the only person in the house. But, sahib, I interviewed all the servants and they swear he was in his study the whole time. His bearer was called several times by Somersham to bring tea and then pink gin and to tidy the room. He says the sahib was working at his desk and never left the room. So the ayah was the last person to see her alive and Mrs Somersham dismissed her at six.’

‘At six? How can she be so precise?’

‘The bugle from the infantry lines was blowing “Cookhouse”. It calls the men at six o’clock every evening.’

‘And did the ayah notice anything unusual in her mistress’s mood? Behaviour?’

‘She says the memsahib was happy, chattering and looking forward to her evening.’

‘I think it’s time we went to look at the scene of the death, Naurung.’

Joe picked up the key, the photographs and the folder of papers and they set off together, Naurung at times following three paces behind and at times hurrying ahead to point the way.

On arrival at the Somersham bungalow Naurung set the key in the lock and stood back. Across the door a careful hand had pinned a notice in three languages — ‘Crime Scene. No Entry.’ Naurung clicked his tongue disapprovingly. ‘This is not accurate. There is no proof that this is a crime scene.’

‘It’ll do,’ said Joe. ‘Suicide is a crime, after all.’

In two places there was a blob of sealing wax and as Joe looked round the outside of the bungalow, he noticed similar blobs on each window. ‘Good,’ said Joe. ‘A proper arrangement. Yours?’

‘Thank you, yes, it was my arrangement. I think Bulstrode Sahib thought it was fussy.’

‘Not at all,’ said Joe. ‘Procedurally correct.’

The two men smiled at each other briefly and stepped into the bungalow. The atmosphere was stale. Stale and unbreathed and smelling of nothing more strongly than disinfectant. Joe stood in the hall and looked about him. One by one he stepped into the rooms leading from the hallway where an air of casual everyday activity suddenly interrupted reigned. Somersham’s clothes were laid out in the bedroom as were also those of Peggy. Someone had stuck a list of things to do on the dressing-table mirror:

Ring J.B. before lunch, Saturday.

Pay Merrick’s bill.

Order refill flit-gun.

And then, in a different hand:

Write to your mother before Friday!

The evidence of life continuing was everywhere to be seen. There was no evidence of life about to be deliberately extinguished.

He wandered from room to room checking their use and looking out for anything that struck him as unusual. With a sigh of irritation on entering the drawing-room he realised that nearly everything about the bungalow was foreign to him. The strange mix of lightweight rattan furniture and heavy Victorian pieces was disconcerting and even the use to which the rooms were put was alien to him.

The study at the front of the bungalow at least was a familiar blend of library and office and Joe took in the mahogany desk where Somersham had been working while his wife had gone to her bath. The desk top had been cleared and Joe assumed that he had taken his records with him. A check through the drawers told the same story.

‘Captain Somersham has moved his effects out of the bungalow?’

‘Yes, sahib. He is located now at the Club in one of the guest rooms until such time as Bulstrode or your good self say he may return. He would not, in any case, wish to be in this sad place.’

A picture of William Somersham bleakly alone in an anonymous club bedroom, haunted by what he had seen and haunted by memory, aware that somewhere suspicion still attached to him, came into Joe’s mind. He shook himself and returned to his search.

He concluded that life was mainly lived on the verandah. Now shadowed by the lowered rattan blinds and abuzz with flies, it must have been a pleasant space here on the cooler side of the house with the doors standing open and a draught of air blowing through. Joe put his heavy file down on a small table and sat on the chair beside it preparing to leaf through in search of Bulstrode’s report. He grimaced as he put his weight on a solid shape underneath the cushion which went some way towards easing the uncomfortable stiffness of the rattan. He fumbled under the cushion and took out a leather writing case with a fountain pen slipped into the spine. The initials MES in gold on the front told Joe what Margaret Elizabeth Somersham had been doing before she went to her bath. And she had hidden it with that automatic gesture that comes to people who live in a busy household with many servants coming and going. Particularly when they have things they wish to conceal.

Without hesitation, Joe picked up the case, opened it and took out the half-finished letter it contained. Peggy had been writing to her parents. He read through an account of her week’s activities. An ordinary life full of routine things but the girl’s sparkle shone through. She was doing her best to entertain her parents with exaggerated pictures of station characters, and her lively description of a polo match which Panikhat had lost to a visiting team would have made Joe smile if an oppressive sadness had not smothered the reaction. He noted the pride and affection with which she described her husband’s prowess on the field. But Peggy had saved her real news for the end of the letter.

Joe’s shoulders sagged. He turned abruptly away from Naurung, swiped roughly at his eyes with his handkerchief and blew his nose noisily. Turning back to the sergeant he said, ‘Naurung, remind me. This Churel of yours — a ghost, you said? The ghost of whom?’

‘She is the spirit — the vengeful spirit — of a woman who died in childbirth, sahib.’

Ť ^ ť

Joe waved the letter at Naurung, waiting patiently but puzzled. ‘We’ll take this away with us as evidence of Peggy Somersham’s state of mind. It should have been discovered earlier.’

‘Her state of mind, sahib?’

‘Yes. This letter was written to her mother and father in England. It tells us quite clearly that she was happy, that she loved her husband and that she had much to look forward to. She was expecting a baby in the autumn.’

Naurung for once was at a loss for words and answered with a hissing breath of surprise and something else — satisfaction?

‘Come on then, let’s take a look at the bathroom. I think I’ve seen everything I need to see in the rest of the house.’

The bathroom door was splintered at the lock, presumably from Somersham’s desperate forced entry. The bathroom was exactly as it had been described to Joe and exactly as he had expected to find it. The bath had been cleaned and washed out but he found traces of dried blood under the rim. On one wall was a small mirror on a shaving stand carrying a mahogany box, its lid wide open, and a razor-strop. At the bath’s side was a tall wall mirror with, in front of this, a rickety bamboo table laden with toiletries.

Joe surveyed them. ‘Good Lord! Enough stuff here to stock the Coty shop! Look here, Naurung! Loofah, tin of talcum powder, eau de cologne, manicure set, Pears soap

’

‘That is so sad! The memsahib was obviously preparing to be a beautiful lady,’ murmured Naurung.

Not for the first time, it came to Joe that Bulstrode — perhaps deliberately — undervalued Naurung.

‘Exactly! And look — this is interesting.’ Joe pointed to an elegantly sculpted scent bottle. ‘It’s a perfume by Guerlain of Paris — Mitsouko. All the go at the moment for bright young things and costs the earth. Bought a bottle or two myself in my time,’ he added in response to what he imagined to be a slightly raised eyebrow. ‘This is very significant, don’t you think?’

‘I had thought so too, sahib. She was not preparing to die. She was expecting to go out for a pleasant evening. My wife also when she bathes sets out her bath things. And she keeps her special perfume locked away from the servants and takes it with her to prepare herself for a special occasion. A perfume so precious would not, I believe, have been put there as a matter of course by the memsahib’s maidservant.’

Joe’s attention went next to the open box on the shaving stand. ‘Somersham’s razors. Would it be usual for him to keep them in the bathroom? Didn’t he use a barber? Would you know this, Naurung?’

‘It is known, sahib. I have talked to his bearer. Somersham kept his razors here always in this box. He always shaved himself and never used a barber. He was careful with his blades. He kept them well stropped and always put them back in order in the box.’

Joe peered into the box. Lined with velvet, there were seven spaces, one for each day of the week. The third space from the right was empty. Joe took out the razor on the extreme left and examined it. London-made and expensive. He admired the fine bone handle and tested the sharpness of the blade against his thumb. Inscribed along the metal blade was the word ‘Monday’. Joe counted along the row to the empty space. Friday.

‘Naurung,’ he said slowly, ‘remind me. When exactly was Memsahib Somersham killed?’

‘Just after six o’clock on the 3rd of March last week, sahib. It was a Friday.’

‘If you were an intruder intent on killing Mrs Somersham, with little time to spare, which razor would you take from the box?’

‘I would take this one, sahib,’ said Naurung pointing to the nearest, ‘the Sunday razor.’

‘So would I. Tell me what happened to the Friday razor.’

‘It was taken away by Bulstrode Sahib. We have no way of taking fingerprints and it was said that so many people had handled it anyway there was no evidence to be taken from it. It was found at the bottom of the bath by the ayah who came to help with the body. She screamed and passed it to Somersham Sahib who gave it to another servant and he took it to Bulstrode. I think it remains locked in a drawer in his office. Would you like to examine it?’