‘I had thought so too, sahib. She was not preparing to die. She was expecting to go out for a pleasant evening. My wife also when she bathes sets out her bath things. And she keeps her special perfume locked away from the servants and takes it with her to prepare herself for a special occasion. A perfume so precious would not, I believe, have been put there as a matter of course by the memsahib’s maidservant.’
Joe’s attention went next to the open box on the shaving stand. ‘Somersham’s razors. Would it be usual for him to keep them in the bathroom? Didn’t he use a barber? Would you know this, Naurung?’
‘It is known, sahib. I have talked to his bearer. Somersham kept his razors here always in this box. He always shaved himself and never used a barber. He was careful with his blades. He kept them well stropped and always put them back in order in the box.’
Joe peered into the box. Lined with velvet, there were seven spaces, one for each day of the week. The third space from the right was empty. Joe took out the razor on the extreme left and examined it. London-made and expensive. He admired the fine bone handle and tested the sharpness of the blade against his thumb. Inscribed along the metal blade was the word ‘Monday’. Joe counted along the row to the empty space. Friday.
‘Naurung,’ he said slowly, ‘remind me. When exactly was Memsahib Somersham killed?’
‘Just after six o’clock on the 3rd of March last week, sahib. It was a Friday.’
‘If you were an intruder intent on killing Mrs Somersham, with little time to spare, which razor would you take from the box?’
‘I would take this one, sahib,’ said Naurung pointing to the nearest, ‘the Sunday razor.’
‘So would I. Tell me what happened to the Friday razor.’
‘It was taken away by Bulstrode Sahib. We have no way of taking fingerprints and it was said that so many people had handled it anyway there was no evidence to be taken from it. It was found at the bottom of the bath by the ayah who came to help with the body. She screamed and passed it to Somersham Sahib who gave it to another servant and he took it to Bulstrode. I think it remains locked in a drawer in his office. Would you like to examine it?’
‘Not now, Naurung. Much too late.’
Joe sighed. If only he’d been first on the scene how different the outcome might have been. He made no comment. There was nothing to be gained by criticising police procedure. No good would come from antagonising Bulstrode though a word to the Collector might not be out of place. He sensed that Naurung understood the shortcomings and though in no way accountable for them he was feeling embarrassed at the continual admissions of failure he was having to make. Joe began to see exactly why Bulstrode had put his havildar in the firing line.
‘At least we have a fresh and unbiased account of the scene in Mrs Drummond’s photographs. Let’s have another look while we’re here on the spot.’
Joe took out the photographs Nancy had taken, held them up and compared them with the scene before him. He produced, with the slight air of theatricality he always felt, a magnifying glass and began to examine them. No quips and jibes were forthcoming from Naurung who looked at the glass with appreciation.
He shuffled his feet slightly and said carefully, ‘While you have that device in your hand, sahib, perhaps you might find it worth your while to examine the marks on the lady’s shoulder. I have not had the benefit of such a glass but I am quite certain that there were marks of some kind there.’
Joe moved his glass to the white shoulders. ‘Yes, you’re right. And I think you have already guessed what these are? Impossible to say for certain and we will need to check this with Bulstrode if it’s not in the report – and as you question it, I take it that it is not?’
Naurung nodded, continuing to look uncomfortable.
Again Joe got the clear impression – and one which he was convinced was being subtly signalled by the havildar – that he found much to criticise in the professional performance of Bulstrode Sahib. He indicated by a slight pause that he had received Naurung’s unspoken message and went on, ‘Well, perhaps we should wait until I’ve spoken to the doctor but I think we’d both say that these are finger marks. Someone has forcibly held her down in the water while she bled to death. And the water was warm – the blood would flow.’
Again Naurung nodded then he asked, ‘But she would have screamed, would she not, sahib? Somersham has said that he heard her singing in the bathroom. He would surely have heard her screaming?’
‘Certainly. But no one has reported hearing any unusual sounds let alone a scream. He must have taken her by surprise and stopped her from shouting by putting a hand over her mouth, which would make it pretty difficult to subdue her and cut her wrists at the same time … I think he got into the room before she entered, hid somewhere, then slipped out and caught her unawares and gagged her with something – that sponge over there? A flannel? I don’t think so. I think our friend is too well organised to leave such details to chance – I think he probably brought a gag with him and took it away with him. On the same principle, he could have brought his own weapon too and used the razor on the spur of the moment. But why? A taunt? Some sort of appalling joke?
‘So what have we got? A happy young woman going to her bath at six o’clock. By seven she is dead. Her husband goes nowhere near the bathroom. So how did the killer get in?’
He looked around the room. In the corner of the room was a tall cupboard, locked and with the key still in the lock. At high level on the outer wall there was a small window. The top-hung casement was shut but not secured. Beneath this little window there was a stool.
‘Hold the stool for me, Naurung, I want to look at that window.’
When Joe climbed on to the stool the window sill was at his waist height. Peering through it he saw a narrow alley.
‘Where does this alleyway lead?’
‘It leads to the infantry lines and then on to the village.’
‘The village?’
‘Town perhaps. The native town. That is where I live.’
Magnifying glass in hand he examined the sill of the window with great care. Without question there were small smears of blood which, being above eye level, had avoided the cleaner’s cloth. He steadied himself on Naurung’s shoulder and jumped on to the ground. ‘Have a look,’ he said, handing him the glass. ‘What do you find? Paint? Chilli sauce? Lipstick?’
‘No, sahib, it is blood.’
‘Now let’s have a look in that cupboard.’
The cupboard had evidently been used as a box room. There were two suitcases, there were files of correspondence, a cricket bat, a hockey stick and a tan canvas shikar helmet hung on a peg. At first sight the cupboard seemed dusty and it seemed the dust was undisturbed but, on a closer look, it was clear that there had been recent disturbance. Joe took a flashlight from his pocket and examined the floor. The dust was scuffed and stirred up but there were no clear footprints to be seen. He turned the beam on to the walls and looked carefully at every square inch of the wooden partition. On the point of giving up his search he remembered to check the back of the door and, as he pulled it towards him, the light reflected on something white about a foot from the bottom edge. Bending nearer Joe saw that a tiny scrap of white fabric had been caught up on a splinter of the rough wood and delicately he detached it and held it up for Naurung’s inspection.
‘Indian cotton, sahib. Rough cotton. It is not a fabric a lady’s dress would be made from. And catching so low down on the door it must be from a man’s trousers – an Indian man’s trousers.’
Joe took a small paper evidence bag from his back pocket and popped the fabric into it, sealed it and put the date, time and his initials on it. Passing his pen to Naurung he asked him to add his own signature.
‘And would anyone have noticed someone climbing out of a high window? Someone bloodstained perhaps?’
‘Anyone bloodstained would have been noticed. Though when the crime is committed in a bathroom … it is not difficult to clean the blo
od away. And there was a blood-covered towel found by the bath. He could have used it as protection or cleaned himself on it afterwards. As for being noticed – a sahib climbing out of a bungalow and using the alleyway would certainly have been noticed, covered in blood or not, but an Indian walking in the alleyway would not have been commented on necessarily. It is commonly used by servants on their way to the town.’
‘Was there anybody nearby?’
‘You will find this problem in India – there is always somebody nearby. There are servants in the compound, strangers come and go.’
‘Did anyone come forward to be interviewed?’
‘No one wants to get into trouble, you understand.’
‘So, suddenly this popular pathway is deserted?’
‘Almost deserted. You will see in Bulstrode Sahib’s notes – a witness did come forward. A merchant. A representative of Vallijee Raja. Spice merchants in Calcutta. He was on his way to the kitchens at the Club where he was going to try to sell spices to the cook and was taking this short cut from the village. It was being said in the bazaar that such a man had been seen leaving the alley and then he came forward willingly to make a statement. He said that he had reached the Club shortly after “Cookhouse” sounded and must have been in the alleyway about ten minutes earlier. He saw nothing suspicious and heard no unusual noises.’
‘Bloody hell!’ said Joe, exasperated. ‘I’d give a lot to interview him!’
‘It would be difficult. Bulstrode Sahib did not detain him. He did not appear to be lying, according to the Superintendent. If he had anything to hide he would have lied about the time he was in the alley. He called at the kitchens at the time he says he did and the cook confirms that he placed an order with him for spices. He could be anywhere in India by now. These box-wallahs travel many miles in a week. Sometimes by train.’ He shrugged his shoulders.
Joe was aware of a sense of helplessness. He was not short of evidence. In many ways there was too much evidence, too many witnesses. He would need to settle down for a quiet half-hour and go through Bulstrode’s notes, however imperfect, and dredge out the important material.
He walked with Naurung back into Somersham’s study, unconsciously choosing to be as far away from the murder room as possible. Joe turned to Naurung. ‘Here are five deaths spread over twelve years. Were there other deaths of Englishwomen during the same period? It must be a matter of record. Can you find out?’
‘Sahib,’ said Naurung, ‘I have a list here. It was perhaps the first thing I thought of.’
From the back of the packet of papers he extracted a handwritten list which he put on the desk in front of Joe. It was headed ‘The Demise of English Ladies. Panikhat 1910–1922.’
There were thirteen. Of these, two had died of cholera in the hot weather season, two had died together in a car smash in Calcutta in January 1918, one had died in childbirth and one of pneumonia whilst on leave and attempting to climb a peak in the Himalayas. These were all married to officers in the infantry regiments stationed at Panikhat. The second group were all wives of cavalry officers of Bateman’s Horse. Two had died of fever and the remaining five had all died unnaturally and in the month of March.
Joe sighed. Nancy Drummond and the chattering memsahibs had it right, he feared. Dolly, Joan, Sheila, Alicia and Peggy. Five ladies violently done to death.
Naurung took a fat gunmetal watch from the breast pocket of his tunic. ‘It is now a quarter to one, sahib. It is about ten minutes’ walk to the mess where you are expected for tiffin. I think we should start out now.’
They set off to walk together. Although Joe declared himself quite capable of finding the way Naurung obviously thought it would be inappropriate if he was left to do so by himself.
‘Tell me,’ said Joe as they walked, ‘Bulstrode – he said to me, and I think I quote his words correctly, “I was out myself in the native town when it happened.” I don’t suppose it’s relevant but it was some time before he could be located. I would be interested to know what took him to the native town at that exact time of day. Is it known? Was he on police work?’
‘Bulstrode Sahib is always on police work, I do believe … but he was not in the old town officially as far as I know. Although he spends much time there, it is said.’
There was a very long pause and Naurung seemed to be wrestling with himself. To say more or to let Joe’s question go unanswered?
Joe prompted him. ‘I know very little about Bulstrode. I don’t know where he lives. I don’t even know if he’s married. Is he married?’
‘He is married but the memsahib is in England. I know this because my father was havildar before me. It is no secret. This happened when I was nine years old and beginning to be a help to my father. The Memsahib Bulstrode came out from England to marry him. I think it was not a happy marriage, sahib. She discovered that he had already an Indian woman though she had been sent away as was the custom. One day the memsahib took her little boy who was no more than a baby at the time and went back to England. She said it was not healthy for a child to be brought up in India and that is the last anyone saw of her or the boy. Bulstrode Sahib was very upset by such an act of betrayal and everyone was very sorry for him.’
‘So Bulstrode’s all alone, then?’
Again Naurung looked acutely embarrassed saying finally, ‘Not exactly alone and not exactly all the time.’
‘So, would you like to make a guess as to why he was down in the old town?’
‘There are ladies. Not ladies it is good to be with, you will understand.’
Joe pondered this piece of oblique information.
‘Can’t blame the poor bastard,’ he thought. ‘Lonely work at the best of times being a policeman, but I really have to pursue this.’
‘Many men do the same,’ he said consolingly, ‘but tell me, Naurung, if you think you can, does it weaken his position? There must be people who know things he would rather the world at large did not know.’
‘If there are such things I do not know them, sahib, but it is said that he has been seen in the company of very small girls … This is India and even in Panikhat such things can be arranged. For a fee. Or an exchange.’
‘An exchange?’
‘I do not want to say any more, sahib. It is all, at the best, speculation.’
It occurred to Joe that a Police Superintendent who had arranged at times to be supplied with underage girls was a vulnerable man. A colleague not to be entirely relied on. And then, he himself had an ethical problem. Should he be discussing these things with Bulstrode’s inferior officer? For the time being he decided to let it go and they resumed their walk.
A few yards from the mess Naurung stopped.
‘I will wait for you here and we will continue our work afterwards. But the sahib need not lose any time. He can go on working even over tiffin.’
‘Working?’
‘You may meet one or two bereaved husbands there. As one officer to another, they may confide things which they would not reveal to an Indian Police Sergeant, sahib.’
Joe paused for a moment in front of the mess and looked at it without much favour. To all outward appearances the Officers’ Mess was bleak and functional, its walls painted a public works department grey and its corrugated iron roof painted public works department red. Window boxes with flower pots were meticulously cared for but the general impression was one of utility. Externally that is. Internally, the visitor stepped back in time to the nineties or beyond. Here was the extreme of opulence that mahogany, turkey carpeting and regimental silver could provide. A host of whiskered officers looked down from the walls from posed Victorian portraits and stiff Victorian groups. Their disapproving faces were interspersed with the no less disapproving and no less whiskered faces of tiger, leopard and wild pig. A ferociously moustached and stiffly posed figure stared out from a dark portrait. Presumably Bateman himself, the founding father of the Bengal Greys. There was a spirited oil painting occupying the whole of one wall showing Batem
an’s Horse charging with Havelock to the first relief of Lucknow. Loyal, turbaned troopers, their dripping lances at rest, led a battalion of kilted Highlanders. It kept the memory of that celebrated episode alive and well since the regiment had hardly been in action between the Mutiny and the bloodbath of Flanders.
Joe was unsure of his welcome with the Bengal Greys. A London policeman, appointed by the Lieutenant-Governor to investigate and possibly uncover a scandal in the closed ranks of a fashionable regiment, was likely to be given a frosty reception. Anglo-India was caste-conscious. There was a rigid order of precedence. The Indian Civil Service were at the top of the pile, the British army below and the Indian army below that, cavalry regiments taking precedence over infantry regiments and, as Joe rather suspected, all taking precedence over visiting policemen. There was even a condescension for which he was sure he ought to be grateful in his invitation to lunch in this exclusive cavalry mess.
He was a sociable man on the whole and on the whole – as he was aware – it was his tendency with strangers to talk too much. He decided to don a mask of formal severity but this did not survive his encounter with the adjutant who, with hand outstretched, came congenially to greet him.
‘So glad to welcome you, sir! Station’s buzzing with rumours. Half of us expected Sherlock Holmes, the other half expected a red-necked London bobby!’
‘I think I’m something between the two,’ said Joe.
‘Let me give you a glass of sherry and let me introduce you …’
And he led him round the circle. John this, Bonzo that, Harry something else, the names meant nothing to him with the exception of William Somersham. Tall, with a cavalryman’s stoop and balding, the husband of the girl whose body he had so recently been inspecting was the only one of the company of officers who did not smile when he shook his hand. His grip was firm and he gave a not unfriendly nod but his eyes on Joe were wary, his expression concealed.
The Last Kashmiri Rose Page 5