He gestured with a nod towards the door beside him. ‘And the dishes coming out of that kitchen give new meaning to the word bland.’
I picked up the menu.
‘You want me to order for you?’
‘Why not?’ He smiled. ‘That way, all blame will lie with you, the senior officer.’
‘As it should. Did you send that telegram?’
Suren nodded. ‘What’s more, I got a reply. It seems Carter was a very special man around here. They’ve already commenced the post-mortem. We should have the results by tomorrow morning.’
‘Well, that’s cause for celebration.’
I pointed to his glass of lime juice. ‘Are you going to join me in a proper drink, or will you be sticking with that Gandhi-water all night?’
‘I think a proper drink is in order,’ he said. ‘We have not yet had a chance to celebrate your victory over the opium.’
‘Good,’ I said, and beckoned to the waiter.
‘Two whiskies. And make ’em large,’ I said. ‘On second thoughts, just bring us the bottle.’
Suren stared at me, wide-eyed.
‘What?’ I said. ‘We’re celebrating.’
An hour later, suitably assisted by a rather decent bottle of Highland Park, we’d exhausted discussion on a range of matters diverse yet dear to us, encompassing my time at the ashram and his days in Dacca, his thoughts on my rather rocky, and some might say non-existent, relationship with a woman called Annie Grant, and my advice with regard to his estranged family. The conversation returned, finally and despite my best efforts, to the subject of Ronald Carter’s death.
‘This case,’ said Suren, picking over the gelatinous entrails of an insipid caramel custard, ‘I just don’t know what to make of it. A man dies, asleep and abed, and I can’t for the life of me see how it can be anything other than poison or a natural death. Yet, despite being a hundred miles from the nearest light bulb, he is covered in burn marks suggesting electric shock.’
‘I’m sorry to have dropped you in it,’ I said. ‘Look on the bright side. It’ll all be over tomorrow once the post-mortem results arrive. If there’s any sign of overdose or poison, we’ll arrest Deakin and Dewar and that awful Scottish preacher, what’s-his-name.’
‘Philips,’ said Suren.
‘That’s right, Philips. We’ll arrest them all. If on the other hand, there’s nothing to suggest foul play, we shake their hands, let them go off on their merry way, and then catch the next train to Calcutta and some ridiculously fiery cuisine more in keeping with your tastes. What do you say?’
Suren looked up from his plate. ‘I must say, I’ve never known you to be so calm about a potential crime going unpunished before. Maybe the ashram cured you of more than your opium addiction?’
‘The man I wanted to arrest is dead,’ I said, ‘and as far as I’m concerned, that’s a pretty good outcome. Rest assured though, as soon as we reach Howrah station, I’ll be back to my insufferable best.’
The sergeant nodded, but something told me he wasn’t quite convinced.
Surendranath walked with me out onto the veranda where we shared a smoke. There was a smile of smug satisfaction plastered upon his face and I guessed he was enjoying making a small bit of history as the first non-white guest of the Jatinga Club. That was fair enough by me and I certainly didn’t begrudge him it.
Finally I left him and headed for my billet at Charlie Preston’s place. It was not quite 10 p.m., but it had been twenty hours since I’d been awoken by the noise of a man intent on murdering me, and I was now physically, mentally and post-prandially exhausted.
The road down the hill was deserted, its surface glistening under a coat of new-fallen dew. The mist was thicker than before and I groped my way through a darkness alive with the calls of crickets and bullfrogs.
Preston’s place was much as I’d left it: the splintered jamb of the front door and the smashed pot by the entrance. I considered rigging up some makeshift means of securing the door, but after a minute’s thought gave up on the notion. For one thing, I reckoned the chances of being attacked two nights in succession were low, and for another, I was too tired to actually think of anything that might help keep the door closed.
Leaving it ajar, I headed through to the pitch-dark bedroom, removed my shirt and shoes and, forgetting that the mosquito net was still up, threw myself towards the bed, only to find myself with a faceful of muslin mesh. There came a sharp snap, as one of the cords securing the net to the wall gave way and the whole thing collapsed around me.
It took the best part of thirty seconds to extricate myself from the damn thing, and having done so, I lit a candle, then started on the process of resurrecting it, reattaching the cords at each corner to hooks on the wall. It was a tedious process, best left to servants, and I couldn’t recall the last time I’d had to hoist one. But as they say: needs must, and all that. It should have occurred to me then and there, but fatigue had hijacked my synapses, and I’m ashamed to say, I passed out bereft of any inkling of how close I was to the truth.
SIXTY-ONE
I awoke to a splitting headache and the sound of someone banging on the remnants of the front door. Lifting the side of the mosquito net, I crawled out, got to my feet and looked for my shirt.
From outside came the dulcet tones of my colleague, Surendranath.
‘Sam! Are you there?’
‘Hang on,’ I grunted. My temples pounded at the sound of my own voice and my mouth tasted like Blackpool Sands.
Stumbling into the hallway, I made it to the front room, opened the door and blinked against harsh daylight and the brilliant white kurta top, trousers and cream chador which comprised Suren’s ensemble for the day.
I pointed to the broken lintel. ‘You could have just come in,’ I said. ‘You can see the door’s buggered.’
‘I didn’t want to presume,’ he said. ‘This might have been the wrong house.’
‘I see,’ I said, standing aside and ushering him in, ‘and banging on a broken door while shouting my name at the top of your voice is perfectly sensible behaviour in that context, is it? Anyway, what time is it?’
‘Eight,’ said Suren. ‘Five past eight, actually.’
‘What time are you expecting news of the post-mortem?’
‘By noon at the latest.’
‘Wonderful,’ I said. ‘It was good of you to wake me in time.’
‘I thought we might take another look at the evidence.’
‘Fair enough,’ I said. ‘Make yourself at home while I get dressed. I’d offer you tea, but there’s no one here to make it.’
Suren shook his head. ‘This is why we should never travel without servants.’
‘Don’t start all that again,’ I said, and headed off in search of a basin of water, a clean shirt and a tube of aspirin.
Twenty minutes later, having failed to find either shirt or aspirin, and wearing one of Preston’s polo tops, I emerged back into the front room with my hair combed to what I hoped was an acceptable standard. Suren was seated on the sofa, his nose buried in one of Preston’s trashy novels.
He looked up.
‘Come on,’ I said. ‘We’re going to finish this today, but first I need breakfast.’
The shack at the outskirts to the Indian part of town was busier today, with three patrons instead of the usual old man. The curry was different too – cauliflower rather than potato – and Suren ordered two plates, which we ate with rotis while I tried not to say or do anything which might worsen my headache. Which made me think. ‘How come you don’t have a hangover this morning?’
‘Because I have the best antidote to a hangover.’
‘And what might that be?’
‘Youth. You, on the other hand, are getting old.’
An hour later, we were trudging back up the hill to Highfield. As we approached, the boy, Thakur, emerged from the house and headed down to the outbuilding.
‘What’s in there?’ asked Suren.
‘An old
car,’ I said. ‘Emily Carter’s been fixing it up.’
‘She knows about cars?’
‘She was a mechanic during the war. It’s odd though …’
‘What is?’
‘Remember yesterday, the boy told us Emily Carter had a room upstairs which she used for storage?’
‘Vaguely.’
‘Well, I went up there. The room was empty. Thakur spent half of yesterday emptying it out and bringing the contents down here. Said the memsahib had told him to.’
‘You think we should take a look?’
‘Can’t hurt.’
Thakur reached the outbuilding ahead of us. Somewhere in the forest beyond, a bird called out. The door to the barn was ajar and from inside spilled the soft yellow light of a hurricane lamp.
I knocked on the wood of the door and entered with Surendranath half a pace behind. Thakur, his back to us, was tinkering with a box on the ground by the far wall. He spun round, his eyes wide as though fearful of finding a dacoit in front of him, or maybe a ghost. I raised a placating hand and smiled.
‘Can I help you, sahib?’ he asked.
‘I just wanted to show my friend here the car. They’re a passion of his,’ I lied.
‘Absolutely,’ chimed Surendranath. ‘Can’t get enough of them.’
I glanced around the barn. It was pretty much as it had been the day Emily Carter had shown me round, except now the shell of the Bugatti had been covered over with a dusty tarpaulin and there were several more boxes and crates dotted around the periphery. The one that the boy was hovering beside looked familiar.
‘Would you mind removing the sheet?’ said Suren.
The boy nodded, and eager to please, quickly made his way to the car and removed the cover. The sergeant made a show of running his hand along the coachwork as I edged myself closer to the box on the floor. Soon I was in no doubt. It was identical to the one I’d carried here from the general store a few mornings earlier.
Surendranath seemed unimpressed by what was left of the Bugatti.
‘This was a fast car?’
‘It was at one time,’ I said.
I turned to the boy. ‘What’s in the crates? The ones you brought down from the house.’
He shrugged. ‘I do not know, sahib. Heavy though,’ he said with a grin.
I walked over and lifted the flap. Inside was the large, black rubberised car battery with the seal of the Hudson Motor Company on one side.
‘What is it?’ asked Suren.
‘Come and take a look.’
‘Is that a –?’
‘That’s right,’ I said. ‘A car battery. Just the thing a new car would need.’
He gave me a hard stare. ‘It’s also a source of electricity.’
Suddenly I realised he was right. Here was electricity in a place that had none. Still, it meant nothing.
I shook my head. ‘You can’t electrocute someone with a car battery. The voltage is too low. The only way you could kill someone with it would be to drop it on their head from a great height.’
Suren turned to Thakur and pointed to the boxes and the equipment scattered on the workbench in the corner. ‘Do you mind if I take a look?’
‘Please.’ He smiled.
I watched as the sergeant walked over to the bench, picked up a few small parts – spark plugs and other greased engine components – and examined them in the light of the hurricane lamp. He then moved on to the boxes. The first was filled with a plethora of springs, lumps of machined metal and bolts, but the second was different. It contained disassembled circuit boards, copper wires and exotic components. He pulled out the items, one at a time, and placed them on the workbench. Most of the pieces meant nothing to me – I was no mechanic after all – but then he fished out one particular object which I did recognise, and abruptly I felt as though the air had been knocked out of me. It was a hollow square of metal, two sides of which were covered in a mass of copper wire. The coil on one side was wound more tightly than on the other. They’d been a common sight in the trenches during the war.
A growing sense of panic began to engulf me as Suren continued to rummage through the remaining crates. He seemed to sense my unease.
‘Is everything all right?’ he asked, looking up.
‘Fine,’ I lied. ‘It’s just the after-effects of my detoxification regime.’
And then, at the bottom of another crate I saw something else that I recognised. Involuntarily, I held my breath as Suren pulled it out.
It was a device, encased in metal and about the size of a typewriter without the keys, affixed to a wooden base with wires protruding from it. A small metal plate read General Electric Company.
‘Any idea what this might be?’
I knew what it was. Two years in military intelligence during the war hadn’t taught me much about car engines, but it had furnished me with a working knowledge of electrical devices. This was what we used to call a motor generator, or sometimes an oscillator.
I turned from the device to Surendranath. The flame from the hurricane lamp flickered, throwing dancing shadows across his face.
‘Search me.’
‘So what now?’ he asked, returning the components to their crates.
‘Maybe we take one more look at Carter’s room?’
‘You think we might have missed something?’
I did. But I wasn’t about to tell him that just yet. Instead I shrugged and turned to the houseboy.
‘We need to see Carter sahib’s bedroom once again.’
‘Of course, sahib.’
A torrent of thoughts rushed through my mind as we walked up the hill to the house. A picture was building, so fantastical that it hardly seemed possible. Nevertheless, I felt a deep unease. Jeremiah Caine’s first wife had been electrocuted. Bessie Drummond had been murdered in a room made to look as though it had been locked from the inside. If Caine, now calling himself Ronald Carter, had died the way I was beginning to suspect he might have, then this was more than poetic justice – the parallels bordered on the supernatural.
I shook my head and told myself to get a grip. I was getting ahead of myself. As yet I still had nothing tangible, and part of me hoped I never would.
Carter’s room was much as it had been when we’d seen it the day before, only this time of course it was devoid of a corpse and the sheets had been pulled from the bed. It already smelled of dust and mothballs and I never ceased to be surprised at how quickly the traces of a person’s presence could disappear. A man could sleep in a room for ten years, and within days of his departure, every trace of him could be gone.
‘What are we looking for?’ asked Suren.
I wasn’t sure what to tell him. I wanted the truth, I needed the truth, but a voice in my head told me to be wary of sharing my suspicions too quickly with my colleague.
‘Anything odd, I suppose,’ I said, examining the bed, pressing down on the mattress, ‘anything that seems out of place.’
The sergeant looked about him, then threw up his hands.
‘I can’t see anything untoward.’
That was good. The trouble was, neither could I. There seemed to be nothing that might corroborate the theory that was taking shape in my mind.
I made for the window. The pane was closed, as were the wooden shutters beyond, just as they had been when I’d first entered the room that morning to find Carter dead in his bed. There was no lock on the window itself but the shutters were held closed by a small metal latch on one of the doors, the pin of which fitted into a hook on the other. Was it possible that someone could have exited the room via the window, closing the shutters behind them on their way out?
I opened the window, reached out to the shutters and released the metal latch. I pushed them open and they hit the walls on either side with a thud. Lifting myself up, I clambered onto the sill and peered out, much as I had done from Bessie Drummond’s window all those years earlier. As I crawled forward, I realised that that single act had set off a chain of events
which had culminated in an innocent man being sent to the gallows.
‘What are you doing?’ asked Suren.
‘Checking to see if someone could have left by the window.’
‘And?’
The ledge beneath was thin and fragile, and I doubted it would take the weight of a fully grown man. I looked up and down. The floor above and the roof beyond were out of reach. There was no drainpipe or other means of scaling the distance. Similarly the drop to the veranda below was almost two storeys and the fall would be enough to break bones. What’s more, given the narrowness of the window ledge, I realised it would have been impossible to have closed the shutters from the outside and still have room to stand, especially with a crate-full of equipment.
I edged back inside, dropped to the floor and turned to Suren.
‘I doubt you could leave the room via the window. The drop is too great and there’s no way up to the roof or the floor above. I can’t see how anyone could have been in here, killed Carter and got out.’
‘You thought one of the guests might have come in through the window, injected Carter with an overdose, then left the same way?’
‘Possibly.’
That hadn’t been what I’d been thinking, but if that’s what Suren surmised I had, it was fine with me. As for my theory: the one that had been forming in my head since last night, which had seemed almost feasible when Surrender-not had uncovered those components in the boxes in the outbuilding, that theory now lay in tatters. Smashed on the rock-hard fact that there was no way in or out of Carter’s bedroom, save through a door locked from the inside.
‘So where does that leave us?’ he asked.
It was a good question.
I shrugged. Maybe Deakin, Dewar and Philips were responsible for Carter’s death. Or maybe there was something bigger at work. A supernatural something that had struck a lightning bolt through Carter’s chest and maybe caused Le Corbeau to slip and fall to his death. Or maybe it was all just coincidence and bad luck. ‘I suppose your poisoning theory is now the only game in town.’
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