Murder on a Summer's Day (26 page)

‘There isn’t a tenth floor at the Dorchester.’

‘James, go away. Let me dress.’

‘Sir Richard has ordered me to find her. He said you might help me. He thinks that being female, and from the north, you may have an insight into how her mind works.’

‘How does my being from the north come into the equation?’

‘I don’t know what he means, I’m sure.’ James looked more miserable than usual.

‘Lydia left Yorkshire when she was seven years old. An East End pearly king and queen would be closer to her than I.’

‘You can ignore Sir Richard, Kate. I can’t. Be a sport. You went to the Earl of Ellesmere. Do you think I should go there?’

I reached out to the bedside cabinet and handed him the items Lydia had dropped in the hotel room, the receipt for stockings from a Paris shop, the ticket stub from the Folies Bergère, the menu from the Ritz Hotel.

He stared at them. ‘Are you saying she has gone to Paris?’

‘My guess is that she did not spend five minutes in her room at the Dorchester. If I were her, I would have taken the boat train from Euston and be halfway across the Channel by now, out of the clutches of Scotland Yard and the India Office.’

James paled. ‘You heard what Sir Richard said last night. He will order me to follow her. I don’t like abroad, I never have.’

‘Oh you’ll like Paris.’

‘Will you come with me?’

‘No. If you meet the right people you will get on famously. I can give you two excellent introductions to people who know everyone. They’ll find Lydia for you in no time.’

‘What if she hasn’t gone to Paris?’

‘I think if our friends at Scotland Yard make a few enquiries, they will discover that she was on the boat train.’

‘Did you know?’

‘Of course not. But trust me, and cheer up. Make the most of this.’

He left, closing the door gently behind him.

‘It makes me feel so modern to eat here.’ Aunt Berta cut into her steak and kidney pudding. ‘When I was your age, I wouldn’t have dreamed that a place like this would have come into being. Something good came out of that war after all.’

Shopping spree completed, we were lunching at our favourite place, not glamorous but with its own charm – the VAD Ladies’ Club on Cavendish Square. My feet ached, the mutton chop was overcooked and I felt heartily fed up with myself in spite of some successful purchases.

Aunt Berta does not miss much. ‘Cheer up, Kate. You’ll thank me for spotting that little hat. And you mustn’t let James’s moroseness rub off on you. He has that effect on people.’

‘It is not to do with James, Aunt. The whole Bolton Abbey business is a disaster.’

This was my first big failure as a private investigator. And now I had encouraged James to go haring off to Paris in pursuit of Lydia Metcalfe. She had indeed boarded the boat train last night and would now be in Cherbourg. Whatever made me suggest that James follow her? My feelings of responsibility were heightened by Aunt Berta’s delight that I had sent her son packing.

‘My dear, it was a stroke of genius. James needs to be taken out of himself.’

‘He didn’t want to go.’

‘Well of course he didn’t but it will do him good. That boy doesn’t know how to enjoy himself, and he’s pushed from pillar to post in the India Office. He is not cut out for it.’

‘Why did he move to the India Office?’

‘They lighted on him because my father served on the Northwest Frontier.’

‘Yes. The hotel manager at the Cavendish Arms served under him. He inspired great loyalty.’

‘Well, you see, my father was cut out for the adventurous life. He was in India at the time of the mutiny, but his troops stayed loyal.’

‘James believes our days in India are numbered.’

She waved her knife dismissively. ‘Well of course he does. We shall be in India for another hundred years, at least. My father said so, and he should know. But, you see, my poor James would take the “our days are numbered” point of view. If he had been born into a different walk of life, he would be marching along Oxford Street with a placard telling us “the end is nigh”. How can he expect to progress if he foresees an end to everything. Really! That is why he was far better off in the War Office, especially since there won’t be any more wars.’

‘Why did he agree to leave War?’

‘The sad truth is he wasn’t really cut out for that either. War is a very convivial department. After all, they are doing what boys like best, planning for fisticuffs and destruction. Having James at their little soirees would be like going to the Folies Bergère with a parson.’

Over the pudding, we talked about Malcolm and Penelope, James’s younger brother and his wife. Aunt seemed terribly pleased that they are producing children at an alarming rate.

Not until our dishes had been taken away did Sir Richard materialise, hovering in the doorway, glancing about the room full of females until his monocled eye alighted on us.

‘Aunt Berta, there’s James’s boss.’

She looked up. ‘Well if it isn’t Richard. He took quite a shine to me once upon a time.’ She waved him over.

He strode across the room. ‘Ladies.’

Aunt Berta raised a gracious hand. ‘Please, Richard, do join us for tea. Or would you prefer coffee?’

‘Tea would be lovely, Lady Pocklington, though you may not feel so kindly towards me when you hear that I have despatched your son to Paris.’

‘Really?’ Aunt Berta feigned perfect surprise. ‘He didn’t mention it.’

‘It was all a little last minute. Someone we want to keep an eye on. We value you your son most highly.’ He allowed a silence.

Aunt Berta is good at codes. She excused herself, and headed in the direction of the ladies’ room.

When she had gone, Sir Richard said, ‘Your cousin has excelled himself, Mrs Shackleton. He discovered that Lydia Metcalfe left London on the boat train at midnight, and will have crossed the Channel by now. He has shown considerable initiative in pursuing her to Paris. But I suppose you knew that.’

‘He did mention it.’

The waitress brought tea.

He waited until she moved out of earshot. ‘Shortly after you left, there was an outbreak of bilious attacks among the Indians at Bolton Abbey.’

‘How unfortunate. I had heard there was sickness in the village.’

‘It is more than unfortunate.’ His tone was so severe and his look so charged with meaning that for a moment I thought he was pinning the bilious attacks on me.

‘I’m sorry to hear it.’

But I was not surprised, given the outdoor situation in which the Indian servants had been billeted, and the lack of hygiene available to them.

‘Prince Jaya has been brought low, and his case is more severe than first thought.’

‘In what way?’

‘He was brave about it, but their doctor was so concerned that he called in a second opinion. The prince is nauseous, has severe irritation, a rash, slowed pulse, his blood pressure is low.’

‘How awful.’

‘Mrs Shackleton, it is more than awful…’

‘I know.’ I lowered my voice. ‘A rash and a slow pulse indicate poison.’

Sir Richard looked round the room quickly, to see if ears pricked at my words. If pricking occurred it was too discreet to be noticed.

‘When I first heard, I naturally thought that being debilitated by the shock of bereavement, the prince had succumbed in a more severe way, but it very quickly became apparent that this was different in nature.’

‘Has an emetic been administered? Is he responding to treatment?’

‘Everything is being done that can be done, but it is too early to say. He may be fighting for his life.’

‘Do you know how this poisoning occurred?’

‘We are calling it severe food poisoning. The duke and duchess are devastated that this should have happened under their roof. They are trying to get to the bottom of it.’

‘The practicalities of multiple cooks and shared kitchens will make it difficult.’

He groaned. ‘Not to mention the entourages of bakers, cooks, tailors, washer-men and women, servants’ servants, hairdressers, under-valets and sorcerers.’

‘Do you suspect it was deliberate?’

‘Frankly, and between us, yes. There is a great deal of cunning in the Indian. The death of Prince Narayan provided the perfect opportunity for a throng of princes to congregate at Bolton Abbey, ostensibly to pay their respects. Among the genuine mourners, we may have called down a nest of vipers. They should have left after the funeral but now linger, waiting for Jaya to die. You suspected foul play all along. I did not want to agree. For heaven’s sake, we rule in India because we know how to do it and they do not. But princes dying at the heart of Empire, where will it end?’

It sounded to me as though it might end in erosion of confidence in the Empire, but this did not seem the most tactful response. ‘Do you see a link between this poisoning and Prince Narayan’s death?’

‘It is possible. Naturally, our attentions are on safeguarding Maharajah Shivram and his grandson.’

‘Why are you coming to me, Sir Richard? Surely you must have your own high-level investigators, and India Office experts.’

‘Quite.’ He took out his fob watch. ‘I will be travelling North on the 4 p.m. train.’

‘Then you must have a great deal to do. Have you time for a second cup of tea?’

‘Mrs Shackleton, this is a terrible imposition.’ He brought the full force of his old-world charm into a single smile and a deprecating tilt of the head. ‘Will you return with me to Yorkshire? I have a car outside. Much as I hate to disturb your visit to your aunt, we need you.’

‘Why?’

‘The Maharani Indira asks for you. She is utterly distraught and will speak to no one else. Her mother-in-law is inconsolable. I think she has not stopped weeping, but at least she welcomes her ladyship’s presence.’

‘Short of supplying handkerchiefs, what on earth do you expect me to do? No one took the least bit of notice when I cried foul over the maharajah’s death.’

‘That was unfortunate, and it will not happen again. In answer to your question, I want you to speak to the women, to the senior maharani, and to Maharani Indira. They always know more than they are willing to disclose to men.’

I saw Aunt Berta in the doorway, hovering hopefully, and waved to her.

Before my aunt resumed her seat, Sir Richard said softly, ‘My dear Mrs Shackleton, if you will agree to accompany me to Bolton Abbey, to pacify the maharanis, I shall take you into my confidence.’

I doubted that very much.

‘All right, Sir Richard, I will come with you.’ I poured tea for my aunt and Sir Richard, and then excused myself. Leaving them to talk about old times, I made my way to the ladies’ room.

There, I wrote a note, which I would entrust to the club manageress to telegraph to Mr J Sykes at the Devonshire Arms Hotel.

Returning. Suggest Mrs Sugden will enjoy stay at hotel.
 

I signed, CS, for Catherine Shackleton, which I hoped might put staff at the local post office off the scent.

I wrote a second note, alerting Mrs Sugden to prepare for a visit to Bolton Abbey.

A little voice told me I would need reinforcements; people I could trust.

Sir Richard left Aunt Berta and me alone to say our goodbyes.

‘Aunt, what department was Sir Richard attached to before the India Office?’

‘He was somewhere we don’t mention, my dear. An office that does not officially exist, you know, somewhat of a secret.’

By taking me with him, to comfort and grill females, Sir Richard was giving a soft edge to his activities. But I had no doubt he would be ruthless.

We boarded the 4 p.m. train at Kings Cross, having a reserved First Class compartment. Lazonby, Sir Richard’s assistant, a slight, cheerful young man of about twenty-three, lifted my overnight bag onto the luggage rack.

‘Can I get you anything from the restaurant car, Mrs Shackleton?’

‘No thank you.’

‘Take yourself off for some refreshment, Lazonby.’ Sir Richard settled himself opposite me. ‘Book a table for me and Mrs Shackleton, at about six, if that is not too early?’

It suited me very well. We would not arrive in Leeds until 8.05 p.m. and then there would be the journey on to Bolton Abbey.

When Lazonby closed the door behind him, I relaxed into my plush seat. The upholstery almost sighed and so did I. After the morning’s shopping, my legs ached. I would have loved to kick off my shoes and might have overcome politeness, except that the tightness on my right toe spoke of a hole in my stocking.

Sir Richard, of course, was immaculate. Someone had polished his shoes to a high gleam. He dashed a barely visible speck from his elegant pinstriped suit. Remembering what my aunt had said about his soft spot for her, it amused me to imagine that he might have been my uncle.

‘What do you know about the princely states, Mrs Shackleton?’

‘Next to nothing. That is why I wonder what made you pick me to go to Bolton Abbey.’

He leaned forward as though the surprise of my question demanded motion from the most still of men. ‘You were highly recommended.’ Some flattery followed which I decline to repeat. ‘There was the additional complication of the prince’s companion, and we were anxious not to escalate the situation before we knew more.’

I wriggled my toes, and prompted him to enlighten me about the princely states, hoping this would not elicit a marathon lecture.

‘Four hours won’t do this topic justice.’ He gave a soft laugh when he caught my look of dismay. ‘I’ll try to leave out a few chapters and all verse. Your Aunt Berta always accused me of giving her too much information.’

Now he had made me feel bad. I volunteered that at least I knew there were over five hundred principalities.

‘That’s right, administered from Bombay or the Punjab, or by local commissioners. Some are large and powerful, others not much bigger than a field. Our treaties provide defence for the princes.’

‘James told me how some of the states were our allies during the war.’

‘Indeed. As well as providing financial and military support, they were our partners in curbing dissent and quietening the demands of the nationalists. Changed the relationship somewhat.’

From listening to the talk at Aunt Berta’s dinner parties, I know that men in high positions speak in a kind of code and one must be alert to discover what lies behind their words. It is such an ingrained habit that they are probably unaware that we mere mortals speak differently.

‘There was a change in the way we governed, dating back to the last century, but it goes back much further than that. The Rajputs supported the East India Company. The Marathas did not and suffered because of that. They have never forgiven the Rajputs.’

‘And is Gattiawan Rajput or Maratha?’

‘Neither. But they have connections with both through kinship. Traditionally, the Rajputs claim descent from the sun and the moon. The Marathas are farmers who rose from the soil by their own efforts. Vendettas still simmer, disputes pop up regularly, sometimes over claims to territory or minerals, other times over matters of status, precedence or
izzat
, meaning honour.’

He let this hang in the air and not for the first time it occurred to me that Indira’s honour had been besmirched by her husband’s affair with Lydia. If her family knew he planned to marry his cockney dancer, they may well have decided to put a bloody stop to that. Was the Indian seen on Bark Lane some emissary of revenge sent by Indira’s family? Before I had time to ask about Indira’s origins, he began again.

‘After the Mutiny, Queen Victoria declared an end to the rule of the East India Company and the beginning of Crown Rule. The princes became responsible to the Crown, in return for protection. That relationship stayed the same until just five years ago when we established a council by royal warrant.’

I was trying my best to keep up. This, I guessed, was one of the changes that had followed the Great War. ‘What difference did this council make?’

‘I’m coming to that, my dear. The Chamber of Princes held its inaugural meeting at the Red Fort. Quite a spectacle, of course, the palace turned into a veritable fairyland with cloths of gold, huge thrones for King George’s representatives who brought promises and guarantees from His Majesty.’

‘What kind of guarantees?’

‘Guarantees that princely privileges, rights and dignities would be maintained.’

Sir Richard remained still all the while he talked, without that need some people have for a hand movement, a sideways glance, a shift in position. He was waiting for some response from me. I had the feeling that perhaps he was coming to some point, hinting at a dispute within the Chamber of Princes that had led to a terrible vendetta against the rulers of Gattiawan.

‘And has the Chamber of Princes flourished?’

‘High hopes sometimes prove mistaken.’

He was beginning to exasperate me. I wanted something definite. A lecture in imperial history did not bring me any nearer to understanding who murdered the maharajah, and who may have attempted to poison his brother.

I tried to hide my impatience. ‘Why doesn’t it work?’

‘All sorts of reasons: resistance to change; fears that private matters may become public; feelings of inferiority; assumptions that the princes with more status will rule the roost. The chamber was designed to put an end to discontent but it has given the princes an even more inflated view of themselves. Now instead of consulting their own British state commissioner, they go over his head to the Political Department in Delhi. We now have less confidence that the loyalty of some states can be taken for granted.’

The terrible thought occurred to me that one of the states whose loyalty could no longer be taken for granted was Gattiawan, and the challenge to imperial authority had brought deadly consequences upon the Halkwaer family. If I were an imperial government, ridding myself of a turbulent prince, I would not ask Scotland Yard to investigate. I would bring in some female private detective who could be brushed aside when no longer required.

A cold chill ran through me.

‘You are cold?’ Ever the gentleman, Sir Richard instantly rose and closed the carriage window.

I wanted to ask a question, but dreaded the answer.

Like some facile lecturer steeped in his subject, Sir Richard talked on about India until I felt half dizzy and imagined a cornered tiger, a majestic elephant, a beggar and a prince shared our carriage, and that the carriage itself was draped in cloths of gold.

When the train slowed and halted at Grantham, no tea wallah came to the window tapping and offering cha, but a railway policeman knocked and opened our carriage door.

The policeman handed Sir Richard a note, waited for a moment, in case of reply, and gave a small salute as he left.

‘I’ve asked for reports on Prince Jaya to be telephoned through to every station.’ He sighed. ‘No change.’

‘Let us hope that is a good sign.’

I watched him carefully to see whether he betrayed himself in any small way by a look, or a shift in his movement. He did not.

When Lazonby returned to the carriage, Sir Richard informed him that there was no change in the condition of the maharajah’s son.

We then made our way to the dining car.

As we waited for our meal to be served, I decided that the only way to satisfy my need for information was to ask direct questions. This, I knew, went against the grain of the civil service.

‘You mentioned the rivalries between princes. Do you believe a fellow maharajah may have murdered Prince Narayan?’

‘I don’t like the word murder, Mrs Shackleton.’

‘Then let me put it another way. Do you think that a fellow member of the Chamber of Princes, or someone outside the charmed circle, may have wished Prince Narayan harm?’

With great care, a waiter placed dishes of oxtail soup on the table.

‘It is unlikely that such persons would go to extreme lengths.’

‘I believe there is ill-feeling and rivalry between Gattiawan and Kalathal.’

‘That is true, but usually more unites the princely families than divides them. They share blood and family ties, enjoy the same pastimes and ceremonies. Underneath the disagreements there is a sense of brotherhood between the princes. They may snub each other, partake in petty insults, allow feuds to fester down the generations, but they have grown soft under our rule and do not usually go out of their way to slaughter each other.’

There it was again, a little qualification, ‘not usually’. My next question.

‘And when the British Raj sees fit to intervene against some transgressing prince, what then?’

There was the slightest physical response from Sir Richard, a flicker in the eyes, a hesitation with the soup spoon.

‘Oh it does happen, occasionally, although by and large we have no great complaints.’

‘But when you do?’

‘There have been cases when some ruler is discovered to be quite insane, or bankrupt, or has turned to criminal activities such as kidnap or murder. At such times, we deal with the matter appropriately, by insisting upon abdication and banishment.’

Now was my moment. He looked steadily at me across the table, clever enough to guess my thoughts, waiting for me to voice them.

‘The transgressor will never see India again because of banishment, or something else?’

‘Banishment, Mrs Shackleton,’ he said firmly. ‘We do not engage in assassination. That would give the princes far too high a view of themselves.’

I wanted to believe him. ‘You spoke of nationalism.’

‘Did I?’

‘Not directly, but it is there in everything I hear about India – that during the war, England’s need was India’s opportunity.’

‘Some princes did subscribe to that line of thought.’

‘You tell me that under our treaties, we extend protection to the princely states. Could murder and attempted murder be a way for a dissident prince to announce that Great Britain cannot protect the princes, even on our own soil?’

The waiter took our soup plates and brought my plaice and Sir Richard’s chop. ‘Do continue, Mrs Shackleton.’

‘All I meant was that the motive then would not be princely rivalry but nationalist ambition.’

He raised an eyebrow. ‘You look at every wild possibility, Mrs Shackleton. I wish some of my colleagues had your imagination. If they had, we may have anticipated that the Chamber of Princes would be less than a roaring success.’

‘There is time yet. It is five years old. How old are our upper and lower chambers? I think at age five, it is too early to speak of disappointment.’

I was no nearer bottoming Sir Richard’s thinking when we reached Doncaster. Lazonby brought a message into the restaurant car from the railway police. Sir Richard slid it across the table to me.

Prince Jaya showing small signs of recovery.
 

‘Well that is good news.’ I pushed the note back to him.

He lit a cigarette and put the match to the slip of paper, holding it over the ashtray with finger and thumb.

When we reached Leeds, there would be other people about and my opportunity to ask the hard questions would evaporate.

‘Ijahar, the valet, he is now at Bolton Hall.’

‘Yes, or in one of those marquees that have been erected in the grounds.’

‘He appeared devoted to his master and distraught at his death. But if anyone wanted to do the maharajah harm, Ijahar would have been able to help them.’

‘Now that really is wild. If you understood India, you would realise that is inconceivable. The depth of deference and respect of Indian servants for their masters is boundless. An inferior reveres his master to such a degree that if the prince threw a knife at him, he would stand and let it enter his heart rather than move. Put that out of your mind, Mrs Shackleton. Not the servant.’

One by one my possible list of suspects was being demolished by Sir Richard: not some kinsman with a grudge, not the British government, not a fellow prince, not a servant in league with a nationalist.

‘A penny for them,’ he said.

But I was not prepared to divulge the suspicion that remained. Perhaps he guessed. After all, I had been assigned to this task partly because there was a woman in the picture – Lydia Metcalfe. Now I was re-assigned because of another woman – Indira, the maharani, had asked for me. More than asked for me; she would see no one else. Did that indicate she thought herself under suspicion?

Avoiding this dangerous territory, we began to speak of other matters. Over the apple pie, Sir Richard reminisced about his youth. He recalled the year Aunt Berta was presented at court, and the balls that followed. He remembered a turquoise gown. When he and she danced it was like floating on air. She always had a full dance card, and she always saved a dance for him.