Restoration (9 page)

  "Cowardly?" the major pulled a
moue
, though the lustre of his beard did its best to spare anyone's feelings by concealing it. "Is not all murder cowardly?"

  "You misunderstand," Ashe explained. "I wasn't making a moral point, I was making a practical one. The murder was committed from behind, with little fear of reprisal – you simply don't fight back after someone's put a pick in the back of your skull. Also, the assailant was intent on murder – you don't accidentally kill someone from behind with an ice pick. This wasn't a scuffle gone wrong."

  "Yes 'Holmes'," Helen mocked.

  Walsingham gave her an irritated glance. "Fair points, neither of which discount the possibility that it was one of the monks, surely?"

  "True. One thing though: do all of the monks carry those fighting poles that the man at the gate had?"

  "Many of them," the major admitted.

  "Then it would be ludicrous to put that down in order to pick up an ice pick wouldn't it? A stout blow to the base of the skull with one of those would have just the same outcome."

  "Perhaps we should see the abbot," admitted Walsingham. "I shall ask Kusang to arrange an audience."

  "Kusang?" asked Ashe.

  "Our interpreter and go-between, provided by the Museum," Walsingham explained. "A surly fellow but we'd be lost without him."

  "Nobody else speaks Tibetan?"

  "No." answered Helen.

  "Then let's talk to Kusang."

 

 

Kusang was found sitting in the shadows of the courtyard, wrapped in several animal skins and the reek of whisky. "If you are going to start killing one another," he said, "I am safer out here I think."

  "What do you know about that?" asked Walsingham.

  "I hear your Major shouting about it," the interpreter said. "An Englishman is not stealthy."

  "We wish to consult with the abbot," Walsingham explained, not wanting to be drawn on the deficits of his military officer. "Can you request an audience?"

  "I can request, but I will not blame him if he refuses. For all he knows one of you may stab him the minute you enter his quarters."

  Walsingham was becoming tired of the insinuation that his party were a bloodthirsty liability to the rest of the monastery's safety. "He need fear nothing from us."

  Kusang offered a smirk that turned into a gently alcoholic belch. "Give me five minutes," he said and shuffled off into the main building.

  "I'm guessing he's not a Buddhist," said Ashe after he'd gone.

  "What makes you think that?" asked Walsingham.

  "Buddhists don't drink," Ashe replied.

  "Oh… Kusang does little else. I'd fall off a mountain as soon as look at it with the amount he consumes but he always seems steady as a rock."

  "Some people can take more than others," Ashe commented, shivering against the cold wind that had started to build.

  The courtyard was dark but for the flaming torches, all remnants of daylight having vanished in the time that they had been in the stables. Whereas the weather had been gentle during their climb down the mountain it was taking a turn for the worse now. Thick flakes of snow were beginning to fall, spinning in the meagre orange light as they tumbled towards the cobbled ground. Ashe hoped that it wouldn't keep him from his train.

  "The weather's getting bad," he said to Walsingham.

  "It often does at night," the botanist agreed. "We'll be safely under cover though, no need to worry."

  No need to worry? Ashe thought there were several reasons but saw nothing constructive in outlining them.

  Kusang reappeared at the main door to the monastery, gave a little bow and beckoned them over. "His holiness will see you now," he announced pompously.

  "Time for you to meet the abbot," said Walsingham.

  "Should I be worried?"

  Walsingham smiled. "He's charm itself. At least I'm assuming so, it's difficult to tell as Kusang always translates. He certainly smiles a lot."

  They entered the monastery, the warmth of the fires enveloping them as surely as the clouds of incense. There was the smell of cooking, something beaten up by heavy spices and set to boil. Even though the chanting had ceased there was a heaviness to the air that made Ashe feel self-conscious as he followed Kusang and Walsingham along the corridor. There was an atmosphere to places of worship, he had always found, a weighty expectancy as if the very air was waiting to ignite. He wasn't a religious man but walking through places like this made him feel like he might be missing out on something.

  They entered the main meeting hall, where recent prayers still dripped from the stone walls. The abbot was sat in his throne at the end of the room, old bones folded within purple robes that looked heavy enough to crush them. He bowed his wrinkled forehead toward them, his smile so wide it looked likely to split his face. Kusang bowed, with Walsingham and Ashe following suit. The old abbot called a greeting, his voice so thin and high pitched Ashe was hard-pressed to define a single consonant. Kusang clearly had a better trained ear as he replied, gesturing over his shoulder to the two westerners. The abbot crowed once more prompting Kusang to turn to Ashe. "His holiness bids you welcome to Dhuru," he explained.

  "Tell him I am grateful of his hospitality," Ashe replied. The interpreter nodded and gabbled a few words to the abbot who bowed toward Ashe.

  "Have you told the abbot what has happened?" Walsingham asked.

  Kusang nodded. "Naturally."

  Walsingham was frustrated at the manner in which he was forced to communicate with the abbot. Kusang controlled the flow of conversation completely and was only too happy to illustrate the fact.

  "Well then," Walsingham continued, trying not to let his irritation show to the abbot, "would you like to ask him his thoughts on the matter?"

  Kusang smiled, turned to the abbot and rattled off a few Tibetan phrases. The old man nodded a couple of times and then seemed to sink inside his gown, retreating into his silk shelter to think. After a few moments he began to speak, Kusang talking over him once the abbot had a head start, translating to Ashe and Walsingham.

  "Dhuru is a place of peace and contemplation," he said. Kusang's voice was toneless, the words meant nothing to him, he was just their vehicle. "It is not intended for those outside our faith, and yet it is due to our faith that we took you in. We believe in treating others with respect and consideration. Even now, I am between two ideals, to offer you protection or to banish you for the safety of my brothers."

  "It seems you are not willing to consider the possibility that the culprit was one of your monks." Walsingham interrupted.

  Kusang stared at him, blatant disgust in his eyes. He was not a man who felt the need to hide his feelings. He knew how much Walsingham needed him. After holding Walsingham's eye contact for a moment, he turned over his shoulder and talked to the abbot. The abbot inclined his head as if to let the words in more easily, giving a slight nod once he understood. There was silence for a moment and then he replied.

  "No, the abbot isn't willing to consider that possibility," Kusang said. "If there is violence within the corridors of Dhuru then you have brought it with you."

  "As long as he's being completely reasonable…" Walsingham sighed. "This is clearly a waste of time. We're to be labelled the aggressors regardless of evidence."

  "The abbot understands why you may wish to look to strangers to explain things – the bird always looks outside its own nest for danger – but sooner or later he fears you may have to accept the threat that comes from within."

  Dear God, thought Ashe, the man was turning into a cliché… this was a waste of everyone's time. "I think you're right," he said to Walsingham, "this meeting's pointless."

  "With your holiness' permission," Walsingham said, "it is clear that we have little to discuss until more evidence can be unearthed."

  Kusang passed this on and the abbot nodded, waving a small hand graciously towards the main doors.

  "Our audience is clearly at an end," said Ashe, bowing towards the abbot and marching out of the room, Walsingham directly behind him. They walked quickly, only too happy to leave Kusang behind, having had more than enough of the man's company.

 

 

In the courtyard the wind was howling now, utterly unrestrained and out to do some damage. Ashe glanced at his watch before realising that such a modern timepiece was likely to raise eyebrows if seen by the others. He tugged his cuff back over it. Five and a half hours left before his return train. Not long. But then he hadn't these complications. There was a lesson to be learned here: he should never assume that these visits would be simple, there was no accounting for the problems of others.

  Back in the stables the smell of food was wrestling with the scent of the horses. A large iron pot was bubbling in the corner of the room. Helen listlessly stirred at its contents while the major polished his rifle.

  "He cleans the damn thing more often than himself," Walsingham muttered as he and Ashe entered. "The man's obsessed."

  "Let's hope we don't end up being glad of the fact before the night's out," Ashe replied.

  "Let me guess," said Helen, looking up from her cooking, "the abbot wishes no part of it?"

  "You are, as ever, correct my dear," Walsingham sighed. "He refuses to consider for one moment that the attacker is one of his brethren."

  Helen shrugged, she had expected nothing else. "He was never going to take any responsibility, we are here under sufferance. I dare say they will be quick to evict us now."

  Walsingham nodded. "He did hint as much."

  "One can hardly blame them," said the major, leaning his gleaming rifle against the wall behind him. "We've forced our way into their country after all."

  "Don't fret over your sensibilities, Major," Helen replied, "and do try to remember whose side you're on."

  The major bristled. "You will never need to remind me of that madam."

  "Pleased to hear it."

  A ruckus from one of the adjoining rooms stopped their conversation descending further. A shamboliclooking man appeared in the doorway, his face as grey and pallid as a victim of drowning.

  "Ah, Haywood," said Walsingham, "how good of you to join us."

  "Most intolerable," the man whispered. "Never known sickness like it… forgive me."

  "I am inclined to do no such thing!" Walsingham shouted, relieved to have a source for his anger that was undeniable. "Your constant lack of coherence – or, for that matter, consciousness – is becoming a major liability to this party."

  Haywood held up his hands in a gesture of surrender, wincing at the volume of Walsingham's words. "I don't disagree," he replied. "Perhaps it would be better for me to leave."

  "We're in Tibet, man!" Walsingham replied. "You don't get to just 'leave' it's a three day trek to the next British encampment… given that you seem incapable of so much as staying upright for a few hours you'll forgive me if I assume the effort to be beyond you!"

  Haywood said nothing to that. He opened his mouth, tried to think of something constructive and then, with no thoughts forthcoming, closed it again. He sat down near the cooking stove – wanting some of its warmth for himself Ashe assumed, certainly he looked like he had need of it. Then he thought of something to say though the reluctance with which he said it weighed on Ashe; there was something in his tone that didn't gel with the impression he had been given of the man.

  "Perhaps it would be for the best were Rhodes to take over as physician," he said. "He has some of the training and none of the shortcomings."

  It wasn't the fact that Haywood was denying knowledge of Rhodes' death that stuck with Ashe – if Haywood had anything to do with that then it was a simple enough ruse to deflect blame – rather the reluctance he showed to offload his responsibility. That seemed wrong, Ashe couldn't say for sure why, but it did.

  "He has one distinct shortcoming," Helen replied. "He's dead."

  And now Ashe paid even closer attention to Haywood's response. He couldn't lay claim to sharp deductive skills. True, he had spent much of his life trying to solve the mystery of the box but that was different, that was
research
, and the two were really not alike. Research was cold, the sifting of minutiae, the retention of facts. Trying to deduce the identity of a murderer? That was something else again, that was about reading people and empathising with motive. Still, Ashe had lived long enough that he liked to think he could tell a liar when he saw one. He had been a college professor and if there was one body of people who knew how to lie it was students.

  "Dead?" Haywood said, his face drawing paler still. "How can he be?"

  And there Ashe settled upon his decision. Whatever the truth behind Haywood's frequent bouts of "illness" he was no murderer, Ashe was sure of it. "How can he be?" Haywood had asked, a question rooted in shock not logic. He hadn't asked "what happened?" just that single brain-fart: 'how can he be?' That was the sound of a man who couldn't process what he had just been told.

  "I can assure you he is," said Walsingham, some of his anger lifted, you could only stay angry at a rag doll for so long, they just didn't give you the responses needed to stoke the fires, "and in circumstances that jeopardise this expedition beyond even your unreliability."

  "He was murdered," said the major. "Icepick to the back of the head." He clapped his hands as if this statement really needed extra impact. "The prevailing assumption being that one of our Tibetan friends decided that they'd had enough of him."