Keeping Bad Company (20 page)

A quick eye, or the eye of a man with reason to be worried about what Mrs Glass might say. A man who had figured so unhappily in her past that, many years later, she was shocked when he walked into a room. McPherson. Because of my prejudice against the man, I'd been trying not to rush to the conclusion, but he was the obvious one from the start. He'd noticed me talking to Mrs Glass. Soon afterwards, I'd accosted him about Eckington-Smith and put him on the alert. I was sorry about that now, but couldn't have foreseen how things would develop. Then he'd overheard me making that appointment to visit Mrs Glass and drawn the right conclusion: I knew Mrs Glass had a secret involving him and was hoping to root it out. What I hadn't expected was this immediate and ruthless action. He'd taken ten hours or less to concoct something resembling the punch and deliver it. Almost certainly, he wouldn't have attended to the details himself. He seemed to have plenty of cronies to do his dirty work for him. Did he intend the drink to kill her or just make her too ill to receive visitors? No way of telling. I worried at it all day until my head was splitting. All paths seemed to lead back to McPherson but there was no sure proof against him. Eckington-Smith was possibly his only weak point.

In the afternoon, Mrs Martley and I took a walk across the park to the livery stables, to give a carrot or two to Rancie. Amos was in the yard.

‘I've got a horse to see out Richmond way tomorrow. That mare of yours could do with a proper bit of exercise.'

Trust Amos. If I'd had an errand at the court of the Emperor of China he'd have probably known a horse in Peking he wanted to see. Instead of our usual ride in the park, we set out westwards and were on Richmond Green by mid morning. We dealt with Amos's business first, going to a private stables to see a carriage horse that might do for one of his clients. He watched, giving nothing away, as it was trotted out in the head collar and harnessed to a phaeton, then made his offer to the head groom. The man shook his head.

‘They won't let him go for that.'

Amos wished him good morning, cheerful as ever.

‘Waste of your time, then?' I said as we rode away.

‘Not a bit of it. He'll come down five guineas, I'll go up five. Nice little horse. I'll be bringing him back with me this time next week. That's the farrier over there.'

We had to wait – loosening the girths and letting our horses graze – while the farrier finished shoeing a carthorse. As soon as it was led away, Amos got into conversation with him. The farrier was friendly enough, but didn't waste words. He had bristly grey hair and looked sixty or older, but had handled the big horse as easily as a child with a doll. They'd never met before but had acquaintances in common and the horse world has its own freemasonry. Pretty soon, Amos had turned the conversation to a carriage owned or hired by an Indian gentleman.

‘Hired,' the farrier said. ‘From over there.' He nodded his head in what was probably the direction of a local livery stables. ‘Taken it and the horses and driver for three months.'

‘Staying a while, then?'

‘Seems so.'

‘See much of him?'

‘Not a lot. Keep to themselves.'

‘More than one of them, then?'

‘Him and the two ladies.'

‘Indian ladies?'

A nod.

‘Wonder what brings them here?'

A shrug.

‘Staying near here?'

A nod towards the other side of the green. I joined in the conversation for the first time.

‘That cottage over there?'

‘S'right.'

We said good day to the farrier and led the horses away.

‘It's the same cottage,' I said. ‘The one that Mr Griffiths stayed in. That can't be a coincidence. And there were two women with the gentleman in the carriage that night by the river, I'm sure of it.'

‘We paying a call then?'

‘Yes.'

It wasn't worth remounting for that short distance so we led the horses across the green. The cottage looked much the same as the first time I'd seen it, except that red geraniums had replaced the forget-me-nots in the border. I left Amos holding both horses, walked up the brick path to the front door and knocked. For a minute or so nothing happened and I wondered whether to knock again. Then suddenly, without any sound from inside, the door opened. Standing inside was the same Indian lad in turban, tunic and white trousers who'd opened the door to Tom and myself when we came calling on Mr Griffiths. At first I thought I must be mistaken, and they only looked alike to me because both boys were Indian. On second glance, I was sure it was the very same lad. What's more, there was a glint of recognition in his eyes, as if he'd seen me before. Surprise made me stumble over the words I'd prepared.

‘Please tell your master that I knew a friend of his and I should be very grateful for a chance to speak with him.'

I gave him my card. He stared down at it, then at me. The recognition had faded from his eyes. They were blank.

‘Sorry, not understand.'

He began to close the door.

‘Please, at least give my card to him. Tell him I'm a friend of Mr Griffiths and . . .'

I spoke deliberately loudly, sure that in so small a cottage somebody inside must be hearing. Before I could finish the sentence I found myself staring at a closed door.

I walked slowly back to Amos.

‘No good?'

‘Something's badly wrong.'

I took Rancie's reins from him and moved so that we had a view of the back of the cottage. Surely somebody inside must be curious about us. Curtains were firmly closed over the downstairs windows but above them, in what was probably a bedroom, they were parted and the window was half open. As I looked up, a flash of red and gold caught my eye. It looked very like the silk shawl an Indian woman might wear over her head, then it was gone.

‘Being watched from two sides we are,' Amos said. He nodded across the green. ‘See the gentleman on the grey?'

A man on a grey was walking unhurriedly away from us.

‘He was taking a good look at you when you were waiting at the door,' Amos said. ‘Stopped his horse until you started walking back, then he went.'

‘What did he look like?'

‘Elderly, quite upright, like an old soldier on parade.'

‘Soldier?'

‘Just how he struck me, like.'

After all, Richmond was probably full of retired officers with nothing better to do with their time than observe their neighbours' affairs. The presence of an Indian family would arouse curiosity. If the horseman had been closer, I might have tried to get into conversation with him, but you need a good reason for cantering after strange men. We remounted and turned for home.

‘So they weren't feeling sociable,' Amos said.

‘They might have good reason. That lad who came to the door was Mr Griffiths's servant. He was almost certainly the last person to see him alive. I thought he must have run off scared.'

‘Perhaps he did, to these people.'

‘All the way out to Richmond? And how would he know where to find them? Another thing, when he was with Mr Griffiths he understood English perfectly well. I remember Mr Griffiths giving him instructions about the coffee. Now he's pretending not to.'

‘Because he was told to?'

‘Yes. The question is why?'

‘To put off strangers asking questions?'

All strangers I wondered, or me in particular? If the Indian gentleman renting the cottage was the same man who'd attended Mr Griffiths's funeral rites it was just possible he'd looked out and recognized me. I'd assumed from his presence that night that he'd been Mr Griffiths's friend. He might be quite the reverse.

‘So what do we do now?' Amos said.

‘I want to speak to that boy, but I don't know how. Perhaps they're even holding him prisoner.'

‘Maybe somebody was pointing a gun on him from inside when he opened the door to you.'

‘I wish there were some way of keeping watch on that cottage.'

We couldn't think of one. The position on the edge of the green would make concealment almost impossible. My presence would be noticed at once and Amos's as well, even if he had the time to spend long days out at Richmond, which he didn't. The only person who might have managed it was Tabby. If only I could find her, I'd set her on it. It might at least be a distraction from whatever she was doing in London.

It was evening before we got back to Abel Yard. I said goodbye to Amos and Rancie at the gate and went upstairs. My brother was sitting in the parlour. He raised an eyebrow at my dusty riding costume.

‘Where have you been?'

‘Richmond.'

I was determined to talk to him about it, even if it meant an argument. But he had something he wanted to say to me.

‘I came to let you know that I'm moving in with Tillington.'

‘Why? You know I wanted you to come to us.'

‘That's not the point. I'm moving in with him to protect him. He was attacked in the early hours of Sunday morning.'

‘What happened?'

‘He's a light sleeper. I suppose he'd been upset by that confounded dinner party. About three o'clock in the morning he heard somebody on the stairs. He called out but whoever it was didn't go away. He thinks there were two of them. He could hear them breathing through the door. So he got up and went out. There was a scuffle on the staircase, in the dark of course. He seems to have given a good account of himself for an old man, threshing out with his cane, and they ran off.'

‘Was he hurt?'

‘Tender place on the back of his head and grazed elbow, but very shaken of course.'

‘Didn't anyone come to help him?'

‘His landlady sleeps in the basement and drinks too much. Apart from that, he's on his own in the house. That's why I'm moving in with him. I didn't protect Griffiths and I'm damned if I'm going to have the same thing happen to his friend.'

I was so shocked by the story that it took a while for what he'd said to penetrate my mind.

‘The same thing?'

He sighed. There was worry in his face, also the dragging regret of a stubborn man conceding that he's lost an argument.

‘This has convinced me, Libby.'

‘That Mr Griffiths was murdered?'

A nod was the nearest he could bring himself to admitting I'd been right all along. I told him then all I knew, including the day's events in Richmond. At first he interrupted with a string of reproaches and objections, but by the end was just listening with a stupefied expression on his face.

‘This is beyond anything we can cope with,' he said.

‘We have to. Who else is going to do anything? Is there anything in this we could put before a magistrate as proof?'

He shook his head.

‘And how would your seniors in the Company react if you told them a good friend of theirs had killed one person and probably tried to kill two others?'

‘You mean McPherson?'

‘Who else? I'm not saying he did all this with his own hand, but every trail leads back to him.'

We talked for a long time, always coming back to this problem of no proof.

‘There are two people who know more,' I said.

‘The Indian gentleman who came to the funeral?'

‘Yes, and the servant boy.'

‘Anil. Yes, and you're right about that at any rate, Libby. He speaks excellent English. But you're sure it's the same boy?'

‘Certain. What's more, he recognized me.'

‘I wonder if I were to go out to Richmond . . .'

‘Not without me.'

I got a promise from him that if he did go to the cottage, Amos and I should go with him.

‘I want very much to speak to them,' I said. ‘It struck me today that this whole thing hinges on what happened in India, but apart from a few words with the lad, I haven't spoken to a single Indian person.'

‘Is that so surprising? Whatever's happening, it's among the British.'

‘But it started in India.'

‘Burton's murder, you mean?'

‘More than that. Whatever caused the quarrel between McPherson and Griffiths happened when you and I were still in the nursery. Can you go over to Daniel's tomorrow and read that manuscript?'

‘Yes, and I could take it back and show Tillington. He might have some more idea on how it all connects together, if it does.'

‘Better leave it with Daniel and just tell him about it. It might be what those two men who broke into his house were looking for.'

‘You think so?'

‘Somebody's been going to great lengths to suppress it. It's safer with Daniel.'

He agreed with that as well. The attack on Tillington had shocked him into a remarkably cooperative mood. I took advantage of it.

‘I suppose they keep a lot of records at East India House.'

‘Of course, going back nearly two hundred years. They've always set a lot of store by putting things in writing.'

‘Do you have access to them?'

‘Yes. They're in the library. I dare say they keep back all the confidential stuff, but the ordinary records should be there.'

‘So you could consult them without attracting attention?'

‘Where is this leading?'

‘We know from the pamphlet that Griffiths served for some time in a small state in Maratha. Twenty years ago there was a very short war there. It would be interesting to know what Europeans were there at the time, particularly army captains.'

Unreasonably, the elderly man with the riding style of a soldier was in my mind. Of the three main characters in the story, we knew who The Griff was and there was precious little doubt about The Merchant. That left The Soldier unaccounted for. Since he'd been invalided home, he'd probably died twenty years before, but even the remotest chance of another witness to what happened was worth following. Tom was sceptical, but for the third time in succession agreed to do what I wanted – probably a happening without precedent.