‘Ronald Carter left the room for a period of approximately fifteen to twenty minutes last night. Is that correct?’
‘Yes.’
‘And, we understand you were also absent from the room for part of that period.’
The doctor looked like someone had just branded him with a red-hot poker.
‘What?’
‘Did you or did you not leave the room, during that time?’
His expression changed from one of fear to indignation.
‘I might have visited the WC, but that was it. Are you seriously suggesting that I followed Ronald out of the room, surreptitiously injected him with something and then returned here?’
Surrender-not said nothing.
Deakin’s hands trembled in his lap. ‘Utter nonsense. I can’t even remember when I visited the lavatory, but I can tell you, I certainly didn’t see Ronald en route and I most definitely didn’t inject him with anything. For God’s sake, man, it was I who first pointed out the odd marks on his chest. Why would I do such a thing if I had anything to hide?’
‘And yet you later informed us that Mr Carter had died of natural causes,’ said Surrender-not.
‘Because that’s what it had to be!’ he said, running a hand over his balding head. ‘The door was locked from the inside and the man was dead in his bed. The marks on his chest were odd, but there was no way he could have been electrocuted, so what else could it have been but natural causes?!’
‘An injected overdose or a poison,’ said Surrender-not calmly.
The doctor’s face turned an interesting shade of puce and for a moment I feared he might do himself an injury, which would have been most inconvenient, not only for the purposes of our investigation, but for the wider community as I doubted there were any other doctors in a ten-mile radius. He turned to me in exasperation. ‘Captain, I demand you end this charade. I’ve shown this jumped-up little darkie more patience than he deserves. I refuse to answer any more of his accusations.’
‘In this matter,’ I said, ‘the sergeant doesn’t answer to me. He reports directly to District Superintendent Turner. I’m afraid my hands are tied.’
The doctor stood up, rattling the teacup on its saucer. ‘I don’t care if he reports to the viceroy in Delhi or to God Himself, I refuse to go along with this farce.’
He glared at the sergeant, and Surrender-not stared right back.
‘Thank you, Doctor,’ he said finally. ‘You have been most helpful. That will be all for now.’
‘He’s right, you know,’ I said, as the maid cleared away the cups. ‘There’s no evidence to suggest that Deakin was involved in Caine’s death.’
Surrender-not had dismissed the good doctor and, after a cursory search of his medicine bag, told him he could set off on his rounds, as long as he returned to the house thereafter.
‘For the purposes of this inquiry,’ said Surrender-not, ‘please refer to the deceased as Ronald Carter. Calling him Caine only adds to the confusion. And Dr Deakin did have the means and the opportunity to poison the man.’
‘Really? The means possibly, but the opportunity? Even if he did follow Caine, I mean Carter, from the room, do you honestly think he could inject the man with some substance without him realising? And then Carter comes back here and happily continues entertaining his guests? It doesn’t make any sense.’
‘Doesn’t it? What if he told Carter he was giving him another dose of morphine but instead injected him with an overdose or some slow-acting poison?’
‘But why would he? He was Carter’s friend.’
Surrender-not smiled. ‘I’ll leave it to you to figure that out. If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that often it takes an Englishman to work out the frankly bizarre reasons why one Englishman might seek to kill another.’
I looked at him and felt a sudden shiver pass through me. ‘Be careful, my friend. A few hours ago you said you hoped this was merely a case of death by natural causes, and now you’re concocting murder theories involving slow-acting poisons. I hope you’re not thinking of turning this into a witch-hunt.’
Surrender-not met my eye. ‘Where there are witches, should we not hunt them?’
FIFTY-FOUR
A gong sounded on the stroke of midday summoning the Carters’ guests to lunch.
There was a knock on the door and the maid, Ranjana, entered and invited me to join the luncheon party in the dining room. No such offer was extended to Surrender-not, possibly because the idea of taking lunch at high table with an Indian who was questioning them while dressed like he’d just arrived from pilgrimage might have caused a certain anxiety and indigestion among the assembled Britishers.
And so, in solidarity with my colleague, I declined and requested sandwiches for the both of us. The maid nodded demurely, then disappeared down the corridor. Taking advantage of the hiatus, I stepped through the French windows onto the veranda for a cigarette.
As I stood there, I noticed the boy, Thakur, emerge from the side of the house, and make his way down the hill towards the outbuilding and the main road. In his arms, he carried a large box and from the way he shuffled down the slope, I presumed it was also heavy.
I stubbed out the butt of my cigarette, made a mental note to ask him what he was carrying, and headed back inside, just as the maid returned bearing a fresh round of tea and two platefuls of cucumber sandwiches which, in true British fashion, had been liberated from their crusts. They tasted of absolutely nothing and it was almost a relief when we’d finished them and were able to call in the next suspect.
Still wearing his dress shirt and smoking jacket from the night before, Charles Preston ambled into the room, took in the view from the windows and then sat himself down on the sofa. To my surprise, he appeared to give me a wink.
‘I must say, Wyndham, when you turned up on my doorstep yesterday morning, I’d no idea you were going to cause such a hullabaloo. D’you mind if I –?’ He extracted a silver cigarette case from his breast pocket and tapped it.
‘I’m not in charge here,’ I said. ‘My colleague Sergeant Banerjee is. I’m sure he won’t mind you having a cigarette, though.’
Surrender-not nodded his assent.
Preston opened the case, took out a gold-filtered smoke and popped it in his mouth before pulling out a silver lighter and holding the flame to the cigarette. ‘So,’ he said, taking a drag and exhaling, ‘you think someone knocked him off then?’
‘We’re examining all the circumstances surrounding his death,’ said Surrender-not.
‘Mmm,’ said Preston, cigarette between his lips, ‘I admit it is all rather odd, the old man dying like that immediately after that palm reader said as much. Even more so the fact that he popped his clogs just before the captain here turns up to arrest him. Rumour is, you think old Ronald Carter was not whom he claimed to be. Is that true?’
‘If you don’t mind,’ Surrender-not interjected, ‘I think it best if we ask the questions.’
Preston stared at the sergeant and tried to suppress a smile. ‘Oh absolutely, Mr Mahatma. Please, carry on.’
Surrender-not winced.
‘Captain Wyndham tells me you weren’t a particularly close friend of Mr Carter’s. Is that accurate?’
Preston exhaled another cloud of blue-grey smoke. ‘Not really. I wouldn’t have described myself as any sort of a friend of Ronald Carter’s, close or otherwise.’
‘And yet he saw fit to invite you back to his home last night?’
Preston winked again. ‘Trust me, dear boy, I was as shocked as you are.’
‘But you came along, anyway?’
‘I was curious. I always get a frisson of excitement around powerful, dangerous men, and let’s be honest, who doesn’t? I mean, whether you liked him or not, and most people did not, Ronald Carter was the big chief. The most important man in a fifty-mile radius. He was like the sun: the centre of our orbits and impossible to resist. I doubt anyone would have said no to him.’
‘So why did he invi
te you?’
Preston shrugged. ‘No idea. It’s not as though he had much to say to me once we got here. Nor to anyone else for that matter. Trappist monks probably throw better parties. But as I said, I doubt many of those here last night would have considered Carter a friend, Dr Deakin maybe, but not the others. Certainly not Pastor Philips or Alan Dewar.’
‘Why would that be?’
‘Didn’t I tell you yesterday that Carter had people in his pocket? Well, Dewar and the pastor were two such prizes. Ronald Carter was a collector, you see, but where other men collect stamps, he collected people. He liked having a hold over them. He loved humiliating them. It gave him a sense of power.’ Preston gave a weary shake of his head. ‘It’s sad, really. The richest man in the region – you’d think that would be enough for him, but it wasn’t. There was a spitefulness to him, a constant need to be acknowledged as better than everyone else. He was like some feudal baron craving fealty from his subjects. The truth, though, is all he really got was fearful subservience.’
‘What hold did he have on Dewar?’ asked Surrender-not.
‘Now that is an interesting one,’ said Preston. ‘Dewar’s father started a logging business in the hills around Maibang about thirty years ago. Proper hardwood for export, not the cheap rubbish you get round here. Built it up from nothing to a point where he was sending several barge-loads to Calcutta each week in the dry season. Upon the old man’s passing, Dewar inherited the whole shooting match. Did pretty well too, at first. But then the war came and the bottom fell out of the market. That’s when Ronald Carter started sniffing around. Carter’d already bought up one or two other timber companies that had gone to the wall. Picked them up for a song, so the story goes, then started undercutting the market, which with his deep pockets he could afford to do. Dewar ended up getting himself into debt with the banks. He was hoping to turn things around last year, but then came that landslide at the end of the monsoon. It closed the Maibang road for weeks and meant Dewar couldn’t transport his logs up to the barges at Tezpur without an eighty-mile detour each way. It killed whatever chance he had of saving the business, and just as the banks were threatening to foreclose, along comes Ronald Carter who agrees to take on the bank’s debt and provide a bit more; only Carter’s money comes on rather tougher terms. Carter wanted shares in the business and suddenly Dewar’s Timber and Logging becomes RC Timber and Logging, and Alan Dewar ends up working for Ronald Carter who treats him like a serf, belittling the man in front of his own wife. The irony is that it was one of Carter’s construction companies that was supposed to be reinforcing the earthworks at Maibang when the landslide occurred.’
‘What of Pastor Philips?’ asked Surrender-not. ‘What hold did Ronald Carter have over him?’
‘That I don’t know, but whatever it is, you can bet it’s powerful. You just need to look at Philips’s face to see he was no fan of Carter.’
‘And Dr Deakin?’
Preston rubbed at the stubble on his cheek. ‘That’s a strange one. The doctor may have been the only man in the district who actually appreciated Carter’s company. Maybe it has something to do with that Hippo-whatsit oath they take, or maybe Carter had done him some favour in the past, but Deakin, I think, was genuinely fond of the old bugger.’
Surrender-not and I exchanged a glance.
‘Tell me about last night,’ said the sergeant.
‘What do you want to know?’
‘After dinner at the club, you returned here at Mr Carter’s invitation for drinks?’
Preston nodded. ‘That’s right. In this very room, as it happens.’
‘And at one point, Ronald Carter was called from the room by his houseboy, ostensibly to deal with some business matter. Is that correct?’
‘Yes.’
‘At what time would that have been?’
Preston shrugged. ‘I’d say around midnight, probably, give or take …’
Surrender-not made a note in his little book. ‘And he was gone for …?’
‘Twenty minutes or so.’
‘During that time, did anyone else leave the room?’
Preston shook his head. ‘Not that I recall … but then I’d taken a bit of a stroll on the lawns for a while.’
‘By yourself?’
‘No. Alan Dewar was with me. The pastor had started talking about God, and, well, I’m afraid I was a bit squiffy and may have made one or two off-colour remarks. Dewar suggested we might take a walk and clear our heads.’
‘And this was definitely while Ronald Carter was out of the room?’
‘Yes. You see, we got back just as his lordship returned.’
‘What about Dr Deakin?’
‘What about him?’
‘Last night, while Carter was out of the room, did Deakin leave the room at all?’
Preston leaned forward. ‘You know what. Now you come to mention it, I do believe he might have done. I remember looking back up at the house at one point and seeing only Pastor Philips standing outside. I’d assumed Deakin had gone inside to join the ladies, but it’s possible he’d left the room. What? You don’t think old Deakin had something to do with Carter’s death?’
Surrender-not said nothing.
Preston gave a dismissive laugh. ‘That’s ridiculous. The only way Deakin could have killed him would be by boring him to death. No, if you want my opinion, if anyone was likely to have bumped Carter off, it would be Dewar. He’s not one to let bygones be bygones. Indeed he’s more likely to go out of his way to punch a bygone in the face, if you know what I mean. The man’s got a hell of a temper. Yes, I could definitely see Dewar killing old Carter. A pillow to the face or a couple of hands to the throat, that would do it. And I tell you what –’
‘Thank you, Mr Preston,’ said Surrender-not. ‘I’d suggest you keep such speculation to yourself.’
‘Absolutely! Though if you do end up arresting him, please let me know first. I’d like to buy the chap a drink.’
FIFTY-FIVE
Alan Dewar looked about forty but dressed like a man half that age. His wife, Celia, in Alice band and floral frock, looked younger still, and with the porcelain skin and flame-coloured hair of a Celt, seemed rather unsuited to any climate south of the Arctic Circle.
After hearing Charlie Preston’s testimony, Surrender-not had greeted them with all the cordiality of a firing squad, ushering them with a nod towards the sofa, where they now sat, their hands entwined in a touching show of marital solidarity.
‘As you know,’ commenced Surrender-not, ‘your host, Mr Ronald Carter, passed away during the night under circumstances which have been deemed suspicious. My name is Sergeant Banerjee and I have been charged by the district superintendent with investigating the affair. In that regard, I would like to ask you a few questions.’
The Dewars nodded.
‘Perhaps you could start by telling me of your relationship to Mr Carter, and how you came to be guests here at Highfield last night.’
Dewar ran his tongue over his lips. ‘We knew each other through business. I run a logging firm up near Langting,’ he said. ‘Carter was a shareholder.’
Surrender-not nodded and made an entry in his notebook. ‘Please tell me, in your own words, how you came to be at the dinner last night and what occurred after you arrived here from the Jatinga Club.’
Dewar squeezed his wife’s hand. ‘Carter invited us to that bloody stupid dinner. I’d rather not have come, to be honest. It’s a long way from Langting to here, but Carter was insistent. He said he had a remarkable evening in store for us. If I’d known he meant all those birds flying into the ground and a snake-charmer fellow predicting his death, I’d have stayed at home. Celia here was most upset by the whole thing and wanted to go straight to bed when we got back here, but Emily Carter was having none of it. I expect she wanted some company of her own age as opposed to being stuck with fossils like Deakin and Pastor Philips.
‘Anyway, the party here afterwards turned out to be a bit of a damp sq
uib. Old man Carter always liked to be the centre of conversation – he’d react badly if he wasn’t, start putting other people down, that sort of thing – but last night he was actually rather quiet. He seemed nervous, almost as if he believed that fakir’s prophecy.’
‘What did you talk about?’ asked Surrender-not.
‘The fakir, obviously, but then the usual matters: politics, the situation on the plantations now that the general strike’s over …’
‘Did Mr Carter leave the room at any time?’
Alan Dewar rubbed his chin. ‘He did, as a matter of fact. That houseboy of his came out to the veranda where we were having a smoke and told him there was a message for him or something. He was gone for a good long while.’
‘And did anyone else leave the room during that time?’
Dewar puffed out his cheeks. ‘I couldn’t tell you. I took a walk down the gardens for a while. Wanted some fresh air.’
‘That would be with Mr Preston?’ asked the sergeant.
‘That’s right. In fact, he needed the air more than I did.’
‘Any idea how long Carter was out of the room?’
Dewar smiled. ‘I’m afraid I didn’t time him. I say, you don’t mind if we help ourselves to a drink, do you? The sun’s past the yardarm, or at least it would be if you could see it.’
Surrender-not looked to me. I had no objections. In fact I quite fancied a drink myself.
‘Help yourself,’ he said.
Dewar got up, walked over and lifted the lid of a drinks cabinet made up to look like a sepia-toned globe.
‘Celia?’ he asked.
His wife demurred.
‘Suit yourself,’ he said, picking out a bottle of expensive-looking single malt and a tumbler. ‘Captain Wyndham? Something for yourself, or are you on duty?’
‘Not officially,’ I said, rising from my seat and walking over to the now open hemisphere of the drinks cabinet. I helped myself to a whisky and returned to my seat accompanied by a glare from Surrender-not. It gave me a certain satisfaction.
Death in the East Page 31